


The Other Man

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Infidelity, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Romance, Undercover As Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been acting strange. John suspects he's after something in particular, but it's not what John wants. Or is it? An adventure full of traps, tricks, and misunderstandings leads the two of them on a rocky and painful road to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trial Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Der andere Mann](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445558) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> SwissMiss translated this story for all of you from German into English and made it available for you to read.  
> Thank you, MissSwiss for your dedicated work! People like you make it possible to share stories away over our language barrier.  
> THANKS!

_Come home, John. SH_

_It's important. I need you. SH_

_John. We need to talk. Answer me. SH_

_I was an arse. Forgive me, John. SH_

_Come to Baker Street. I'm waiting for you. SH_

_Can you come? Please. SH_

_I'm so sorry. Come back. SH_

_John. Please. SH_

_Please, John. Come back home. Please. SH_

_Please._ The word was unexpected. Especially so many times in succession. _Back home_ too. And the apology. That was new. Sherlock must be getting desperate. His persistence in texting was another point in favour of the theory as well.

"Aren't you going to answer him?" Isabel asked.

"No."

John had set his mobile to silent, but it lay on the table beside his plate, the display lighting up with every incoming message. John read them all. And more kept arriving, at irregular intervals. Sherlock obviously wasn't about to give up.

Isabel put her fork down on the edge of her plate, reached for her wine glass and took a sip, looking pensive. Her eyes met John's. She didn't say anything, but it was clear to John that he was going to need to make a decision. Isabel had invited him over and cooked dinner for the two of them. He'd been looking forward to the evening and even thought he might spend the night at Isabel's, in bed with her. 

And now this with Sherlock. John reached for his phone, turned it off, and put it away on the bookcase behind him, next to the coffee table book with the photographs of Etruscan archaeological finds. Then he turned to Isabel, picked up his wine glass and held it up to hers.

Isabel gave him a searching look. The rims of their glasses touched, releasing a clear, high note. John smiled into her doe-brown eyes.

"Sorry," he said.

 _I'm all yours..._ He'd been about to say it, but realised at the last second that it wasn't true. The argument with Sherlock weighed on him. He couldn't set it aside. Something continued to bother him, like a scratching noise in the background that he couldn't filter out. It was irritating; he was irritating himself.

"What's wrong?" Isabel asked.

"Nothing. Why should anything be wrong?"

"Your friend keeps sending texts and you're fidgety and only half here. Something's obviously wrong."

John set his glass down. _Your feelings are irrelevant, John._

The statement still hurt. The memory of what had happened stung. Sherlock had been at his laptop when John came home in a bad mood and let it all out:

"You send me out and I work my arse off getting the information you want. And you just let me stand there like a first-class idiot while you go off investigating on your own. You don't even think it necessary to let me know when the case has been solved. You can't do that, Sherlock. I'm fed up with playing your puppet."

Sherlock hadn't so much as batted an eyelash.

"I feel like shit, do you even get that? You just use me however you like and then drop me as soon as you have no more use for me. That's not how it works, Sherlock. Not with me!"

No reaction.

"Sherlock. Are you even listening to me?"

"I'm working."

"I feel like you set me up and betrayed me."

"I have no interest in such inconsequential things."

"Oh, is that right? I'm inconsequential to you. You don't care how I feel. Is that all you can say?"

"Your feelings are irrelevant, John. Leave me alone."

Sherlock hadn't even looked up. John had stood there like a poodle left out in the rain. Bounced off the ice of the man who had changed his life. Pushed back out into the cold and loneliness he'd thought he'd overcome.

"Fine. Whatever you say."

John's voice was hard and short. He'd left then, slamming the door behind him.

Arsehole!

John chewed on the bite of potato casserole he'd shoved into his mouth. It gave him time to think about what he should say to Isabel. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock. Especially not about the argument with him. He'd reserved this evening for himself and Isabel.

"I'm going to have to get my own place," he finally said.

"Why? I thought you liked living at Baker Street. At least it always sounded like it."

"I don't intend to spend my life with a man," John said with a smile, his tone jovial.

"Last time you couldn't stop raving about your friend and all his special talents."

"He's a brilliant criminologist, no question. But that has nothing to do with my private life. I want a family some day. A wife. Kids."

"Some day?"

"As soon as I've found the right woman," John said. A couple of seconds later, after Isabel didn't react to that, he added: "Sherlock's a genius but he's complicated. He has no idea about people. He insults me all the time. It's too hard to deal with in the long run."

"And you think a family and kids will be easier?" Isabel asked pointedly.

"That's different," John said evasively. He felt like biting his tongue off. He hadn't even slept with Isabel yet, and here he was already talking about a family and kids. Totally awkward and counterproductive to boot. Isabel's reaction wasn't exactly warm. Fuck.

"You let yourself get roped into quite a lot with your friend," Isabel went on after a couple of minutes, during which they ate in silence.

"It's not like that. I can leave any time. I'm a free man."

"Emotionally," Isabel clarified.

"I'm free emotionally too."

"What is he to you?" Isabel asked as she cut into her slice of meatloaf.

"Do we have to talk about him?"

"Yes. I'm interested. Do you consider him a friend?"

"He's an egotist and a sociopath," John said. "I help him with his cases. He doesn't help me with anything. The friendship is pretty one-sided."

"It doesn't look that way to me," Isabel disagreed. "I mean, you come back from Afghanistan injured and suffering from a trauma. He offers you a place to live and takes an interest in your life. In all areas, as far as I can see. He lets you in. Pretty unusual for a loner. He's in love with you."

"He's only in love with himself," John countered.

Isabel laughed. "Can I be honest? I thought the two of you were a couple at first. And quite frankly, it still looks like a love story in disguise to me. I've never seen anyone send so many texts."

"Don't you start with that too!" John exclaimed. "I don't know what people are seeing. We're not a couple and there's no love story, disguised or not. It's pure speculation. Projections!"

Isabel smirked. "Don't you think you're overreacting just a teensy bit?"

"No, I don't. I'm sick and tired of all these assumptions and allegations. I am not gay."

John growled testily. It was always the same. Always Sherlock. It wasn't even possible to spend an evening with Isabel without everything revolving around his flatmate. Damn it.

"Gay is just a cultural construct that's set up to exclude others," Isabel said, chewing calmly on her meatloaf. "Look at the Etruscans, for example..."

The doorbell rang. Isabel fell silent in the middle of her sentence. Her eyes met John's, her annoyance clear.

"I'm not expecting anyone," she said.

"Should I get it?" John asked.

"No, I'll go see who it is. Stay here."

Isabel got up, but before she could so much as take a step, the door was flung open and Sherlock stormed into the living room, coat swirling, his hair wild and wet with rain. He made a beeline for John, who was still sitting in his chair.

"John," he said in a choked voice.

To John's horror, he fell to his knees, fumbled for John's hands and gripped them firmly. His fingers were cold, damp, and stiff. John stared dumbly into the desperate eyes before him. Sherlock's face was streaked with wet trails that might have been rain dripping from his hair, or tears. Or both. Sherlock's eyes were red-rimmed in any case.

"I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry, John," he whispered. "Please forgive me. Please. I'm an arrogant arse. I've hurt you, I know. I'm so very sorry."

"Sherlock..."

"I need you, John. I need you more than anything else in the world. Please. Please come back to me."

A gush of tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes. John was completely floored.

"Please. Please, John," Sherlock begged.

The next moment he pressed his wet face onto John's hands. His shoulders shook with restrained sobs. It was then that John started to realise Sherlock was putting on a show. This wasn't Sherlock. This was a performance. A performance designed to get him out of here. Or something along those lines. John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair - it was thicker and softer than he'd expected, which distracted him for a moment - and yanked his head up, pulling his hands away from his friend.

"I'm busy here, Sherlock," he scolded him. "What are you doing? Get up!"

Sherlock stood up slowly, as if weighed down by several tonnes of ballast. He turned to Isabel, looking downcast.

"I'm sorry," he said piteously. Tears still ran down his face. "I'm all in a muddle." He hid his face in his hands as he sobbed.

"Have a seat," Isabel said, pulling out a chair for him.

"No!" John objected, but Isabel sent him a hard look.

"Are you going to send him away in a state like this?" she asked sternly.

"He'd just playing at something. You don't know him. This is all some sort of trick to get something he wants."

"Don't be so heartless, John."

Isabel placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He'd sat down and covered his face with his hands.

"What happened, Sherlock?" she asked gently.

Sherlock took several seconds to regain his composure. Then he looked up, found John's eyes with his injured gaze and whispered brokenly, "I love you, John. I love you more than I can comprehend."

John couldn't believe what he was seeing and hearing.

"Stop this, Sherlock!" he said roughly. "Stop playing us for fools." He got up and extended his arm toward the door. "I want you to leave. Now."

"I don't know what to do with all these feelings, John. I'm really sorry."

Sherlock's expression was so forlorn that John hesitated for one brief moment. Then he tossed his misgivings aside and said, "I was invited here tonight and I'm not going to let you ruin the evening, Sherlock. So get lost! Go on!"

He dragged Sherlock off the chair and skivvied him to the door.

"John. Please."

But John wouldn't be put off. He pushed Sherlock out into the hall in front of the door to the flat. Sherlock resisted, hanging on to him.

"Come home, John. We need to talk. I've hurt you, I know. I'm sorry. I'm so awfully sorry, John. Please come back to me, please."

"Knock it off with the theatrics, damn it! Go!"

"Both of you should go," Isabel said. She'd followed them into the hall and held out John's jacket. "You should go home and talk to each other. Set things straight."

"Isabel..."

"It's better this way, John. You can't let him go like this. We'll try dinner again some other time, all right?"


	2. The Picture

"Sherlock."

John carefully extracted himself from Sherlock's embrace, at least far enough that he could look him in the eye. Sherlock continued to hold on to him tightly. He'd enveloped him as soon as they'd left Isabel's building, no more than a couple steps away on the pavement. No matter that it was still raining. John had been so shocked that he'd let it happen, had allowed himself to be pulled into Sherlock's arms. And then Sherlock had held him close, his wet face pressed against John's neck. 

That had made John uncertain. Was Sherlock serious? Was he really so desperate? Had his friend fallen in love with him and didn't know how to handle it? John couldn't discount the possibility. The scene in front of Isabel was one thing. The hug out here in the dark, without an audience, was something else. It was physical. Something that Sherlock generally shied away from. Neither of them was saying anything. And they were alone. 

John had carefully put his arms around Sherlock and allowed the closeness at first. Sherlock smelled like the damp of rain and warm skin. John had been startled at first by the mutually agreed upon intimacy, the pressure of Sherlock's hard, angular body. His heart had started to beat rapidly. He'd felt Sherlock's breath on his neck, the accelerated rise and fall of Sherlock's chest against his. He'd closed his eyes, let himself go, and just waited. Waited for Sherlock to do or say something, anything. But Sherlock had just pulled him even closer and not said a word. Finally, John had carefully freed himself from the embracement. 

They stood close, their foreheads nearly touching, Sherlock's arm around John's waist, the warmth of their breath between them. John let his hand rest on Sherlock's arm. He didn't want to push him away, but wasn't quite sure what was going on or how serious the situation was.

"What's going on with you, Sherlock?" he asked lightly.

"Is this... unpleasant for you?" Sherlock asked back shyly.

"It's not really something I'm used to," John admitted after a brief moment's thought.

"But not unpleasant?"

"No."

"Good."

Sherlock released his grip altogether, took John by the arm and pulled him a couple of metres further until they were under the awning of a nearby pub. The rain was coming down harder and they were both wet.

"Let's go in," Sherlock said, and opened the door.

John hung back. "Sherlock," he said, "what's this all about? You made that scene to get me away from Isabel. You hugged me in the middle of the street. And now you're pulling me into the nearest pub."

"We need to talk, John."

"Here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Somewhere it's not raining," he said with a hint of impatience.

Sherlock went into the establishment without another word. John followed him reluctantly. The pub was over half full and stank of ale and wet clothes. It was surprisingly quiet, however. There was no background music and the customers weren't overly talkative. Most of them sat rather grumpily behind their ale or whisky, and those that were conversing did so quietly.

John and Sherlock sat down at the bar and ordered single malt whiskys. John took out his handkerchief to wipe the water off his face and hair. Sherlock held his hand out for the cloth.

"It's wet, Sherlock."

"Doesn't matter."

Sherlock took the handkerchief out of John's hand and wiped his face with it too, only to hand it back to John when the man behind the bar, who had been watching them, gave him a handful of paper towels. Sherlock dried off his head and returned the wet wad to the barkeeper with his thanks.

"Sherlock..." John began.

"Wait!"

Sherlock had taken a paper serviette out of the holder on the bar top, leaned toward John and with one hand on the back of his neck, gently mopped up the drops that were dripping anew out of John's hair. John was too taken aback to react in time. When he finally thought to reach for Sherlock's hand, it was all over. The bartender set their glasses of whisky in front of them.

"You were still wet," Sherlock said unnecessarily as he set aside the serviette and reached for his glass.

John, bewildered by the unexpected gesture as well as Sherlock's firm hand on the back of his neck, took a drink too. The liquid burned going down his throat, then spread out and warmed him. John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he looked at Sherlock, meeting his gaze straight on. 

"You wanted to talk," he said.

"Yes, yes. We're going to be a couple in love for a little while."

"Excuse me?"

"We, you and I, are going to be a couple. A couple who are very much in love," Sherlock repeated.

"Sherlock's what's this all about? What's going on?" Sherlock didn't answer, so John went on, this time more gently: "We can talk about anything, you know that, right? Even feelings, Sherlock. There's always an answer. We're adults, and we're friends."

Sherlock searched John's eyes for a long moment, a hint of uncertainty in his pale gaze. Then he said slowly, "We're going undercover as a couple. Mycroft asked me on behalf of a client who prefers to remain behind the scenes."

Undercover. That was rather anticlimatic. Perhaps a relief... but still, there was something else too. A fleeing bit of disappointment. And unease. A touch of awkwardness between them. Sherlock was acting unusually hesitant.

"Why as a couple?" John asked.

"We'll be investigating in the gay scene."

"Here in London?"

"Yes."

"Why a couple?" John repeated his question.

Sherlock took a sip of his whisky. It took a few seconds before he answered: "I don't want to go there alone." And a couple of heartbeats later, during which they silently held eye contact: "I need you there as my partner. In every sense of the word. I can't do it otherwise."

"Is that what Mycroft wants?"

"Mycroft thinks we're together anyway."

"You never corrected him?"

"No."

John blew out a breath and swiped his hand over his face. This was all a bit much for him. He needed time to let the idea settle and understand it. He gestured for another whisky and drank it straightaway, as soon as the barkeeper had refilled their glasses with a generous portion.

"If we do this, you know... if we go out on the gay scene here in London as a couple, that's as good as an official coming out. Everyone will know."

"Everyone already knows anyway."

"I'm not gay."

John finished his drink in a single draught and ordered another.

"How do you know? Have you ever tried it out?"

The question knocked the air out of John's lungs. And it made him angry. Now Sherlock had gone too far.

"No," he said curtly. "You?"

Sherlock didn't answer. That irritated John. And the longer Sherlock remained silent, the more it irritated him. Oh shit. Not that! This couldn't be happening, it couldn't be... John felt something stirring in him. Regret. Shame. Warmth. A completely irrational fear of losing Sherlock. And something like... jealousy? Sherlock's eyes had shuttered at John's gruff response, and now John said, his voice low and contrite, "I apologise."

There was something soft and wondering in those light blue eyes when Sherlock turned them once again on John. They regarded each other uncertainly.

"No, I've never tried it out," Sherlock answered slowly.

Half an hour later they were in a taxi on their way to Baker Street. John was quarrelling. Still. 

"That really wasn't necessary, that whole drama at Isabel's."

"Yes, it was! You need to understand, John: you can't start anything with her now, and that includes spending the night and sleeping with her."

"You could have just told me you needed me to help with this investigation."

"Mycroft didn't call until after you'd left. You didn't answer your phone or react to any of my texts. And we're meeting the client early in the morning."

"That still doesn't justify that scene."

"We're a couple in love, John. Get used to it. You know it now, and Isabel does too. You don't need to explain anything to her. And hopefully I don't need to explain anything to you either."

John snorted but didn't answer. He was torn. He didn't want to present himself in public as the gay life partner of Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand, he didn't want to leave Sherlock in the lurch. Especially not in that milieu. Sherlock was attractive, he was well aware of that. Sherlock's fear of going in there alone was justified.

"Why in love?" John asked eventually, shortly before they arrived at Baker Street. "Isn't it enough for us to just pretend we're together?"

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance. "Not with this crowd," he said.

***

The man in the photograph was somewhere in his mid-twenties. It had obviously been taken on holiday, somewhere in southern climes at the seaside. Greece, maybe, or Spain. The man was leaning against a light-coloured stone wall, completely relaxed. He was wearing a white shirt, the top two buttons undone. In the background, agaves were growing wild in front of the backdrop of the sea. The man was looking past the camera into the distance. The wind tangled his shoulder-length black hair and plucked at the lightweight material of his summer shirt. He was tanned and sported three days' worth of stubble. His lips were full and pleasantly rounded and loose. The look in his dark blue, dreamy eyes was turned inward and entirely heedless of the surroundings. The warm evening sun cast a golden spell over the scene. It breathed with an intimacy that was both profound and moving. 

The person who had taken the picture must have been standing quite close to the man and yet managed not to disturb his pensive detachment from reality. Whoever it was, they must have had a keen eye for the beauty of this unique moment. The young man in the photograph was called Michael Antonio Julian von Plat Manderville and was the offspring of a noble house. His face united the pride of British gentry with the southern grandezza of his mother, a Spanish Princess of the House of Aragon.

"Good-looking fellow," Mycroft had said dryly, barely brushing the surface of what had caused Sherlock and John both to fall silent when they first saw the picture. The man was a great beauty, the photograph a work of art.

Sherlock had tucked the photograph away somewhere. Michael Antonio Julian von Plat Manderville was missing, ironically last seen in the gay scene of the East End where there were three clubs casually referred to as the "Bermuda Triangle". The client was Michael Antonio's father, George von Plat Manderville, a big wheel in British politics and an associate of Mycroft's. 

"I am counting on your complete discretion," Mycroft had warned them. "No police. We can't afford it." And then he'd added, not without a trace of cynicism, "But I'm sure the two of you are the right men for the task."

Sherlock had merely rolled his eyes, and John had - for once - held his tongue.

***

The entrance to "Cranberry" was in a narrow lane, a nondescript metal door guarded by two hulking bouncers who wanted to see their proof of membership. Sherlock and John showed them the cards Mycroft had arranged for them. One of the bouncers opened the door and waved them through.

Inside was completely different than they'd expected. There was no wild party. No loud music. No dancing throngs. Just a bar. A small one. Unassuming yet upmarket. The pianist in the background was playing elevator music, classical and surprisingly good. There was a semi-circular bar in the middle of the room, and scattered around it little tables and alcoves. The men seated there were drinking ale, gin, or whisky, just like in any other British pub, talking animatedly amongst themselves but at a muted volume. 

Sherlock and John found a table in one of the alcoves. The waiter served them the ales they ordered and asked, "Are you new here? I've never seen you before."

"It's our first time," Sherlock answered. "The club was recommended to us by an acquaintance."

"Do you need an introduction?"

"Gladly."

Sherlock beamed at the waiter in a way that made John's heart squeeze uncomfortably. The waiter grinned at Sherlock, meeting his eyes boldly.

"But of course," he said.

Fortunately, the response sounded quite professional, and the waiter disappeared a moment later.

"Sherlock..."

"There's no problem, John. Calm down."

Sherlock laid his arm demonstratively around John's shoulders when the waiter returned to their table a few seconds later with two menus in his hand.

"There you are. Just ask if anything is unclear."

He handed Sherlock and John each a menu and withdrew with a smile.


	3. The Man at the Bar

John stared at the document the waiter had brought them. It was a folded menu of cranberry red leatherette. Inside was a list. Not of food, but of themed rooms. Including a detailed description of what could be expected there, and what not.

Cranberry.  
A place to make contacts in civilised surroundings. Our bar on the ground floor is a place of...

Motion.  
In the heat of the beat. Dance yourself into the mood. Our party room on the first floor is...

Pure.  
Hot and cold, steam and water. Our spa area with sauna. On the second and third floors, you will find everything that...

Lucifer.  
The path to the Second Circle of Hell, where the wild things are. Our party room in the basement is sure to...

Nature.  
A rendezvous in paradise. Visit our green rooftop terrace. The ultimate alternative to...

Lightheart.  
For undisturbed tête-à-têtes. Our fantasy rooms on the fifth floor can be booked by the hour...

"Do you have a preference?" Sherlock asked.

"We probably shouldn't start with the wild things."

Sherlock smirked before being distracted by some men entering the club. They were a small group of four. The doormen had let them in, so they must have been members. They didn't approach the bar, however, instead passing by on the right side and disappearing.

"The passage to the rooms appears to be on the other side of the bar," Sherlock noted.

More men arrived. Alone, in pairs, or in small groups. Some of them came into the bar, but most of them took the right-hand passage. Sherlock and John were so focused on the repetition of this procedure that they didn't notice that they themselves were being observed. It wasn't until two men got up from one of the nearby tables and approached them that they looked up.

"New here?" one of them asked. "May we join you?"

They were both about the same age as John and Sherlock, perhaps a few years younger. They immediately launched into a conversation about this and that, mostly about the club, where they had been members for a while now.

"You don't look like a couple," said the one who had introduced himself as Frank. "Are you looking for some fun? Because we are too."

Frank was the one who talked the most, and the longer he spoke, the more he turned exclusively toward Sherlock, while the other one - Marvin, in John's opinion the nicer of the two - kept his attention on John. John and Marvin didn't talk much, preferring to listen to the others, but they looked at each other once in a while and smiled.

"We're looking for an old friend," Sherlock said after a while and took the photograph out of the inside pocket of his jacket. "He's the one who recommended this place to us."

The others leaned over the picture, curious.

"Wow! That's some shot! Is it one of Luc's? Yeah, it must be Luc's. No one else takes pictures like him."

Lucas Finch, they explained, had a photography studio just down the street. He spent a lot of time at the club and specialised in photographs of gay men and beautifully erotic poses. They didn't recognise the man in the picture, however.

"Luc's here a lot. If you'd like, we can go look for him together. Do you like to dance? Or would you prefer the spa?"

Frank posed the question to Sherlock, while Marvin smiled at John with his dark eyes. John closed his eyes a moment when he felt Sherlock's fingers timidly inserting themselves into his palm. 

Then Sherlock said, "John and I will start up on the roof."

"Okay, we'll come with you."

The corridor on the other side of the bar was painted cranberry red and led into the back part of the building, ending at a set of stairs and two lifts. Sherlock had let John's hand go when they stood up, but now, in the small lift with a large group of boisterous men who'd got in at the same time, Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist, pulled him close and held on tight before anyone else could push between them.

John leaned into Sherlock and was pressed flush against him by the cheerful crowd of men. He closed his eyes for the few seconds it took for the lift to reach the first floor. The other group exited, but the four of them stayed inside and kept going up to the roof. Sherlock's hand brushed John's back. They separated and their eyes met. Sherlock smiled, and John smiled back.

"So are you a couple after all?" Frank asked. "You look all lovey-dovey."

Neither John nor Sherlock answered, but their smiles deepened for a brief moment before the lift doors opened.

The rooftop terrace was a real surprise. It was bigger than they'd expected, spreading across the roofs of three buildings, all connected by narrow bridges. Trees and bushes grew in large planters. Ivy-covered pergolas provided alcoves, nooks, and sectioned-off spaces. There was a fountain and a veritable forest of bamboo planted in plastic ponds. Lanterns and lights were hung all over. Cosy benches, lounge chairs, and garden swings were host to whispering, flirting, kissing, and cuddling couples. A small bar with drinks and finger food stood off in one corner. Now and then, one of the young men who could officially be hired there popped up looking for customers. The roof was clearly the ultimate lonely-heart alternative.

Sherlock and Frank stopped at the railing that formed the boundary on one side of the terrace, allowing a view of the night-time cityscape. Marvin and John made their way over to the bar to get something to drink. The bar was small and the server wasn't in much of a rush, so it took some time before they had their ales in hand. When they returned, Frank was standing at the railing with a young man they didn't recognise, talking to him animatedly.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked.

"Guess he found what he was looking for," Frank said, somewhat sourly. "He left with some good-looking chap, at any rate."

"Where'd they go?"

"No idea. Somewhere in the bushes, I assume."

"That's ridiculous! Where is he? What direction did they go?"

Marvin laid a hand on John's shoulder.

"Let him go, John," he said comfortingly. "You can't stop him if that's what he needs. It's what you came here for after all, isn't it? Enjoy the evening."

"Leave me alone!"

John pulled away from Marvin and pressed both ales into his hands.

"Which way?" he snapped at Frank.

Frank pointed toward the exit.

"Did they say where they were going?"

"No. They were talking, and then they left."

John snorted and set off. Sherlock. Damn it! Where had he gone? Into the bushes with some young man? Never. John decided to search the rooftop first. There were men snogging everywhere. Some of them seemed to be getting rather hot and heavy. The unambiguous acts and the soft moans from male throats confused John. A young man went by him in the middle of the bamboo forest, touched him, rubbed his body against him as he passed, and smiled at him. John fled, even as he felt his lower body reacting and cursed himself. He needed to find Sherlock, damn it all to hell! But Sherlock wasn't there. And yes, admittedly, John was glad not to find him in a compromising situation with another man. Fuck, what was going on? What was happening to him? With his body, with his thoughts? He needed to find Sherlock. John tried calling his phone but had to leave a voice mail. He shot off a text:

_Sherlock, where are you? Report back. JW_

Nothing. John took the lift down to the first floor, where the dance room was. House music was blasting and a rhythmic storm of lights gave little more than glimpses of the mass of dancing figures. John pushed his way through the bodies, kept being caught up by some man or other, spun around, chatted up, grabbed, but every time he tore himself firmly away. It would be impossible to find Sherlock in that hammering, thumping, steaming, twitching heap. John searched up and down the alcoves on the edge of the dance floor. No Sherlock. He considered going to the DJ and asking him to make an announcement, but then thought it would be fairly naff to have Sherlock's name called out. He wasn't even certain Sherlock was here anyway. John went over to the bar, where it wasn't quite as loud. Maybe Sherlock was there.

"Looking for someone?"

John turned and found himself looking into a pair of smiling blue eyes.

"Yeah, my friend," he said.

"Gonna be tough, that. Take a minute and calm down first. Come on."

The stranger put his hand very lightly and carefully on John's shoulder and steered him to the counter, where he pressed a cool, freshly drawn beer into John's hand.

"Thanks."

John was thirsty, and it felt good to stop a moment, take a breath, pause his helter-skelter, frantic search, and clear his head.

"First time here?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. And you came with your boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"Not a good idea, believe me."

"Why?"

The stranger smiled. He exuded an aura of calm and safety, and seemed nice. He wasn't that young either, even older than John.

"If you love each other," he said, "then enjoy that love at home. There are too many temptations here, too much sex, too much fear."

"Why fear?" John asked.

"Look around."

John fell silent as he drank his beer. The man was right. He was agitated and confused. He was fixated on Sherlock. This had nothing to do with fun anymore.

"If you want to get something out of this club, then come alone," the other man went on. "If you insist on coming here with your boyfriend, you should both be prepared to let loose for a couple of hours. Unless you're so much in love that nothing can distract you from each other. And if I were you, I wouldn't want to put that to the test."

John swallowed. He leaned against the bar top beside the strange man. They stood so close that their shoulders touched. John was surprised when he realised it didn't bother him. It wasn't anything spectacular. It simply felt familiar, nothing erotic. He felt safe.

"What should I do?" John asked.

"Do you love him?"

John blew out a breath. Did he love Sherlock? They'd planned to come here as a couple in love, and now Sherlock had simply disappeared. But this place here, this club, wasn't their life. It wasn't his and it wasn't Sherlock's. Sherlock needed him here as a partner for the investigation. That was all. Love. What was he supposed to say?

"What do you have to think about so long?" the stranger asked in a gentle voice.

"I don't know," John replied as he thought it over. "I don't know if I love him."

"Oh! Not good. Or very good. Interesting. Are you committed to each other?"

"Yes." John found to his surprise that the lie didn't bother him at all.

"So what should you do? Hmm." The stranger took a sip of his beer. "You either forget about him and find something for yourself here at the club, give into your lust and fuck whatever you want."

"Or?"

"Or you stop worrying about what love means and accept your feelings for him."

John fell silent, disheartened. After a while, he asked, "What about you? Are you single?"

"No. I have a partner."

"But - let me guess - you're here without him."

"Got it in one." The stranger smiled.

"You're not testing your love then."

"No. I'm certain of it."

"And what about too much temptation, too much sex, too much fear?"

"I live out my desires outside of our relationship too," he replied calmly. "It's just sex. Not love. Love is something else. That belongs to my partner. My heart belongs to my partner." He held his fist to the left side of his chest.

"But not your body?"

"My body belongs to me. It's my business. I have to be able to handle it. For my partner's sake too."

The stranger took another sip of his beer. His mood had become sombre. His forehead creased in thought, forming countless wrinkles. He had a very striking face.

"Separating sex and love so easily? Without any conscience. I can't imagine it," John said.

"You're talking like a virgin," the other man countered, still serious. He turned to face John and looked him in the eye. "Everything you hold back for love will come back to haunt you. You may not realise it at the time, but one day you'll say to yourself: I didn't live my life. It's as if you sully your love with everything you deny yourself for its sake. It will ruin you eventually. You can't stop it happening. Love can only exist where it's pure. Pure and free. Where you're at peace with yourself."

John looked into those blue eyes, stricken, as they searched his. They were so deep and intense that John flinched back.

"I'm drunk," the stranger said then with a dismissive gesture, and turned to the man behind the bar: "Marc, give us two more beers."


	4. The Photographer

"Dance! Why don't you just dance! Go on, get out there!"

"I can't dance."

"Everyone can dance. Don't be like that. Go with him!"

The man next to him at the bar pushed John toward a middle-aged blond man who had tugged at John's t-shirt and smiled at him.

"Come on!"

"I don't want to dance."

"Sure you do."

The blond man took John by the hand and pulled him into the crowd, where he began a wild, carefree dance. John moved grudgingly to the fast beat of the music while he tried to figure out how he could get away and what his next move should be to find Sherlock. The music pounded into his brain. The light throbbed in his eyes. The strobe effects made him dizzy, and the alcohol did its part as well. John tried to orientate himself, deciding to set out toward the exit. He left the blond man to his dance and worked his way more by touch than by sight through the jumping, heaving, sweating mob. 

He was startled half to death when someone suddenly grabbed him hard by the arm. He turned reluctantly around. Sherlock! They stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock appeared disheveled and upset, he was sweating and his mouth hung open. 

_John!_

John couldn't hear anything, but he could read his name on Sherlock's lips. 

And then there was nothing but Sherlock, his embrace, the heat of his body, his smell, his clammy shirt, his breath, relief, the beat of the music, the lights, steaming bodies, hands in hair. A kiss sighed onto John's lips, soft and warm. John's heart melted into the pulse of the music. He closed his eyes, opened himself to Sherlock's lips, took them between his. A sweet-tart taste, a reassuring accord, a surge of fire in John's loins. Neverending heartbeats. Hot breath on his mouth. It wasn't many moments before Sherlock broke away, meeting John's eyes with a smile and hugging him again, swaying him in time with the music, pressing his face into John's neck. _John._

Sherlock took him by the hand and pulled him out of the room. It wasn't until they were outside in the corridor that John saw a young man had come with them.

"This is Jonas," Sherlock introduced him. He was still holding John's hand and didn't appear ready to let it go any time soon. "Jonas knows Lucas Finch, the photographer. We're looking for him." Turning to Jonas, Sherlock said, his eyes still flashing with pleasure: "This is my partner, John."

Jonas nodded. "You'd best wait here. Otherwise you'll lose sight of each other again. I'll find Luc for you and bring him here."

"Where were you?" John asked brusquely as soon as Jonas had left.

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

"I was up on the roof. When I came back with the drinks, you were gone."

"One of the men took me to Jonas. When I returned with him, YOU were gone."

"Frank said you'd left with some young guy. I was looking for you."

"I was looking for you too."

"I sent you a text and left a message on your voice mail."

"Me too."

Warily, John took out his mobile phone.

_John? Where are you? Looking for you. SH_

_On the 1st floor. Meet at the exit. SH_

_Waiting for you. Where are you? SH_

_John, answer me! SH_

And five calls from Sherlock. He hadn't seen or heard any of them amidst the noise of the party room. Hadn't thought to check while he was talking to the strange man at the bar. Fuck.

"Sorry. I didn't hear it or feel the vibration. I was here on the first floor most of the time. Too loud."

"No matter," Sherlock said. "I'm just happy I found you again."

Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulder, pulled him close and kissed his hair tenderly, as natural as if he'd been doing it for years.

"What's the plan?" John asked as they leaned against the wall of the corridor and waited for Jonas.

It wasn't a very pleasant place to wait. The loos were just a little further down, and there were men hanging around on the lookout for a quickie. John was chatted up several times and even grabbed. Sherlock reacted rather indignantly to that. Surprisingly, the men showed much less interest in Sherlock.

"We're going to let Lucas Finch take our picture," Sherlock said. "That's the best and most inconspicuous way to get into his studio in order to take a look around and scope him out. He may have taken more photographs of Antonio or know something about him."

"Who's Antonio?"

"Michael Antonio Julian von Plat Manderville. Apparently he went by Antonio. At any rate, the men here know him by that name. - Go away, he's mine!" With an air of disgust, Sherlock pushed away the man who had sidled up to John. "They're like a swarm of flies!"

John smirked. "Ah-ha. I'm yours, am I? Interesting."

"Stop it, John."

Sherlock was actually angry, and didn't seem to be in the mood for jokes at all. Fortunately, Jonas returned soon thereafter. He brought along an older man with a spring in his step. The second man was slim, almost bony, with faded jeans and a plain shirt. His buzz cut revealed the harmonic shape of his skull, his hair almost entirely grey. He had alert, blue eyes and smiled at John goodnaturedly. 

It was the stranger from the bar.

"Luc, this is Sherlock and John," Jonas introduced them. "They'd like you to photograph them."

The man held out his hand to Sherlock.

"Lucas Finch," he said, and as he shook John's hand, added, "So it's you then, John. I see you've found your boyfriend."

"Do you know each other?"

"We had quite a nice chat," Luc replied before John could say anything. Then, addressing both: "You want me to photograph you? How do you know that's something I'd do?"

"From a friend," Sherlock lied. "He showed us a picture you took. When we saw it, we knew we wanted one too."

"Ah-ha." Luc looked from Sherlock to John and back, measuring them up. "All right. You're sure you want to? I take erotic pictures, you know. You can find run-of-the-mill stuff on every street corner."

"Yes, we're sure," Sherlock assured him immediately.

"What about you, John?"

"Me too."

Luc nodded pensively. He had become serious and seemed to be thinking about something. Finally, he said, "All right. When do you want to come by?"

"Now," Sherlock proposed.

"Now?" Luc laughed heartily. "It's almost 11 at night. I'm off duty."

"Too bad." Sherlock looked disappointed.

"A good photograph takes time. You can't just push a button and end up with erotica."

"We have all night."

Luc gave Sherlock a penetrating look. Then he smiled and said, "All right. Fine. Just this once. Let's go over."

***

The studio was two streets away on the ground floor of a former factory. There was a large open space that housed the photography studio along with a living space. When they arrived, the lights were on. A man sat at a work station in the midst of the clutter, working at a computer.

"Jay? I'm bringing some clients in."

"Okay."

The man at the computer looked up briefly and raised his hand in greeting. He had long, blond hair that he'd tied back in a pony tail, and sat in a wheelchair. 

Luc took John and Sherlock along with him into the studio space.

"I assume you want to be photographed as a couple," he said as he spread a black blanket over the bed that stood in one corner draped with black curtains. "Portrait or full body?"

"Portrait," Sherlock said.

"And what's important for you? What the most important thing between you?"

John and Sherlock looked at each other, not sure what to answer.

"How do you feel when you're together? Strong? Powerful? Tender? Wild? Soft?"

"Safe," said Sherlock. "Safe and secure."

"Good. We'll start with that. Sit on the bed, probably best in a position you're familiar with for cuddling. Just settle in until you feel safe and secure. And try to relax. Take your time."

Luc turned on some soothing background music, dimmed the lights, and started to fiddle around the bed with spotlights and lamps in the semi-darkness, positioning reflectors, setting up tripods and cameras. John and Sherlock crawled onto the bed together, at a loss as to what to do.

"We have to do something," Sherlock whispered in John's ear. "He'll see that we're not used to this."

"So do something."

"You have more experience with this kind of thing. Tell me what to do."

"All right. Sit with your back at the head of the bed."

Sherlock did as he was told, and John settled into Sherlock's lap, between his legs. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him from behind.

"Is this good?"

It wasn't really comfortable, and John didn't feel very safe or secure. He scooted up so that Sherlock had to lean forward and pulled Sherlock's arms around him. He didn't know at first where to put his hands, but then Sherlock crooked his legs up and John slid sideways a bit, put his arm around Sherlock's thigh and placed his other hand on Sherlock's wrist. They experimented, slid, pushed, corrected, and tried to position their bodies together.

And then everything fell into place. John sat back against Sherlock, utterly at ease, as Sherlock leaned against the headboard. Their bodies fit into each other's spaces, their legs, arms, and hands intertwined. John felt warm and cosy, like he was in good hands. 

Luc adjusted the light level so it was a little brighter, got his equipment ready and screwed something on the tripod.

"Good. Let's get started then. I'm going to put the lights on you now. Don't get startled."

John closed his eyes as the spotlights hit his face. Luc regulated the various light sources at a console and adjusted the reflectors. Then he turned the lights down a bit again.

"Sherlock," Luc said, taking one of the cameras from its tripod and coming closer, pointing the objective at the two of them, "rest your face against John's neck. Yes, like that. Hold him with more intent. Yes, that's good. You're leaning over him, protecting his back, protecting him, holding him steady, competely dedicated to him. Good! Smell him, Sherlock, put your face on his skin. Behind his ear, it's warm and smells like John, you're so close to him now. Breathe him in! Good, very nice. John, can you feel Sherlock? His body all along your back, his warmth? You need to feel him breathing at your back, John, feel his heart."

John closed his eyes while Luc clicked the shutter. Sherlock sighed against his neck, tugged him in closer. John reached up with his hand, petted Sherlock's hair, tilted his head to one side to give Sherlock more room. Sherlock's lips were on his neck. John felt the hot breath flowing out, the exaggerated breathing motions against his back. 

Luc took picture after picture. "Very nice! Can you look up, Sherlock? Just a bit. Leave your face on John's shoulder. I just want to get your gorgeous eyes. Fantastic! John, turn your head to Sherlock, put your face in his hair, like you trust him. Very nice. And now look right past me, Sherlock, not into the camera. Focus on John. Snuggle up to him. Feel his breath against your head, the rhythm, the heat. Ah, John! Give in! Let yourself fall. He'll hold you. Do you feel it? You're home. Trust him. Yes! Good! Very good!"

Luc walked around them, snapping away. John could feel his heart racing. He was all topsy-turvy. He was lying there, putty in Sherlock's arms, his eyes closed and breathing into Sherlock's soft, tousled hair. Sherlock held him close, just held him. They breathed together, both of them panting, body on body. What the hell were they doing?

"Good, relax, take a quick breather. We'll set up a new position and concentrate a little on your hands, John. You have incredibly beautiful hands. Strong and gentle. Very erotic."

Luc re-set the lighting while John and Sherlock separated from each other. They didn't have much time to gather themselves, though.

"Sherlock, can you move to the middle of the bed? I want you at the same height and facing each other. John, kneel down in his lap and hug him. Cuddle up close."

Luc waited a few seconds until John and Sherlock had found their positions. They had their arms wrapped around each other, and John whispered in Sherlock's ear, "Sherlock. What are we doing here? Is this really necessary?"

"Shh..." Sherlock calmed him, rocking John gently back and forth.

Luc started shooting again, while the two of them simply held each other.

"Reach into Sherlock's hair, John," Luc ordered.

Sherlock sighed softly against John's neck as he ran his hand through the tangled curls.

"Yes, just like that. Use your hand more deliberately, John. Feel his hair, how thick it is, how wild. Good. Very nice."

Luc switched to another camera and said, "Let your hands go for a nice leisurely walk now, John."

John stroked the thin material of Sherlock's shirt, across his back and arm. John groaned. The embrace was tight. It was hot, body to body like this. Both of their pulses were racing. John let his hand wander to Sherlock's neck, the base of his skull, up into his hair. Sherlock reacted, lifting his head to let it rest in John's hand. His face was flushed, his lips parted, his eyes such a piercing blue that it took John's breath away. 

Luc was silent as he photographed. Then he said, "Can you take your shirts off? The same thing but bare-chested. Is that all right?"

John looked at Sherlock in alarm. But after a brief hesitation, Sherlock nodded and unbuttoned his shirt. John peeled off his own t-shirt. They hugged each other more carefully now, placing naked skin against naked skin, before virtually burying themselves in each other, as if they could squeeze away the sensation of how close they were.

"Your hands, John. Let them wander."

John slowly caressed Sherlock's warm skin, felt his hand trembling. Sherlock's hot, quick breath. The spicy scent of his nudity. Sherlock's fingers dug deeper into his flesh, John could feel Sherlock's muscle tone change as their bodies moved against each other. John closed his eyes, tried to tune out what he was doing. But he could still hear Sherlock's sigh just as he felt all too clearly the moment their genitals aligned. John brushed his hand up to Sherlock's neck as he had at first, slid it up into his hair.

Luc said calmly, "Very, very nice. Give in to your body, Sherlock. Lean your head back, give John some room. John, leave your hand in his hair and let your instincts guide you."

Sherlock tilted his head back slowly, his breaths heavy, his eyes closed, his lips parted. John let his mouth trail along Sherlock's throat, blindly aroused, his head empty of all thought. He heard Sherlock's uncontrolled moan, and fire shot into his groin as their lower bodies rubbed against each other. He buried his hand in the sumptuous curls at the base of Sherlock's skull, gathered them in a tight fist, tugged his head gently back and sucked on the warm skin for a long, heedless minute, feeling Sherlock shudder.

"Wonderful. Very nice."

Luc's voice was low and soft now, as he continued to take shot after shot. John ran his lips over the rough stubble underneath Sherlock's chin, licked the skin there, exploring, lost in what he was doing. His cock throbbed. He felt Sherlock's hard length pressing against it.

Then, suddenly, resistance from Sherlock. John stopped what he was doing imediately and let go. Sherlock sat up and flung his arms around John, tight and fearful. His pulse was racing. Skin to skin. Sex to sex. They both struggled for composure. 

Luc said, "You decide how far you want to go. I have several very nice shots already. We can stop here."


	5. On the Trail

They were of Jay. John examined the photographs with avid interest. Luc had withdrawn in order to look over and sort through the photographs he'd taken. Sherlock had insisted on waiting the twenty minutes and asked for permission to look around a bit. Now they were poking around the studio. Pictures had been hung up on one of the long outer walls - raw concrete with the broad strip of windows about two metres up typical of industrial structures. An entire series of pictures of Jay. An interplay of long, straight blond hair, slender hands, and narrow, beautifully curved lips. Marbled green and ochre eyes with darker specks. Most of the images were pensive, a small handful more cheerful. Jay in the nude. Jay in an erotic pose with an unknown man. The pictures were unabashed. Luc clearly didn't have much interest in keeping genitals covered up.

"John?"

Sherlock waved from the other end of the wall display. There were photographs of Antonio. A couple of portraits but mainly nudes, surrounded by nature, the sea, crumbling walls of white stone, sand, fig trees, agave plants. Antonio was an unblemished, completely natural model.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked innocently when Luc approached holding out a CD.

"That's Antonio. He used to go to Cranberry quite often."

"Not any more?"

"No. Not any more. Here are the best shots of the two of you. I've made an initial selection. Take a look at them in your own time. If you find one you particularly like, I'll make prints for you. Just let me know which one. They're all numbered. If you were thinking of something else, feel free to let me know. I have 186 other pictures of you."

"Why doesn't he go to Cranberry any more?" Sherlock asked. He tucked the CD casually into his inside jacket pocket.

"He's not in London anymore. Why are you interested?"

"He's quite special."

"Yes, that he is. He's a real beauty, in every sense. Truly a remarkable person. He has the physique of a warrior, the mind of a scientist and the soul of a poet."

Lucas' voice was wistful, perhaps even a little bit quixotic.

"Where was this one taken?" John asked, pointing at one of the shots. "Mediterranean?"

"At his place in Spain."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Something like that."

"Does he live in Spain?" Sherlock asked.

Luc appeared to become suspicious at this point. He gave Sherlock a searching look. Then he said - friendly, but in a way that made it clear he wasn't about to share anything further - "No idea. It's late, I'll show you out."

"This is your partner, isn't it?" John asked, stopping when they came to the portraits of Jay.

One of the photographs in particular had piqued John's interest. A close-up of an eye, looking straight into the camera as if the man were looking into the viewer's eyes from very close. The green and ochre were intense, the darker spots untamed and provocative. Strands of blond hair played around the eyes.

"Yes, that's Jay."

"It's a fascinating shot," John said.

"Jay has such fantastic eyes with those scattered speckles," Luc said, extending his hand to follow the contours of the image as he explained. "And that fine, pale, straight hair. The contrast between an unfettered inner richness and outward clarity, between a riotous sense of adventure and ordered discipline. There are only two elements here: hair and eyes. Jay allows that reduction and compaction to happen. That's what makes this image so special. And it's what makes Jay so special."

"It's incredible how much beauty you see in these men," John said, his admiration sincere.

"That's what happens when you love," Luc replied with a smile.

***

In the east, the first rays of light began to dawn on a new summer's day when John and Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street. They were both tired and thirsty, so they went to the kitchen first and drank some water. They'd driven back from Luc's without saying much, and there wasn't really anything to say now either. The events of the previous night hung heavy and undigested between them.

"I'm going to shower," Sherlock said, setting his glass on the counter.

John held out his hand.

"Give me the CD."

"What are you going to do with it?"

Sherlock searched through his pockets and handed John the disk. John took it, not quite knowing what he wanted with it. His initial impulse was to destroy it, to throw it away and make it disappear. But he knew he couldn't untake the photographs. These were just copies on the CD. The photographs themselves were stored at Luc's, and the contents were imprinted in their heads and on their bodies. 

"We'll choose one of the pictures tomorrow, all right?" Sherlock proposed when John didn't answer him.

"Yeah. I just want to take a peek," John said.

"As you wish."

Sherlock left the kitchen and John went into the living room, where he started up his laptop and put the CD into the slot. Twelve pictures. The internal drive hummed as it downloaded the files. Luc had only given them twelve out of many, many more. The twelve best, John assumed. He wasn't sure whether he really wanted to see them. His insides heaved when he thought about what they had done in front of the camera. And now a tug from between his legs. Fuck. It wasn't going to get any better if he looked at the pictures. But it would only get worse if he didn't look at them, leaving it to his imagination as to what they showed. Fine. If it had to be done, it had to be done. It was too late to reconsider now anyway.

When John opened the first file, he was surprised. Luc had photographed them from much closer in than he'd thought. Sherlock's face in the crook of his neck, lots of tousled hair, only his eyes, clear as water, visible, his gaze turned completely inward, John's hand soft and secure in Sherlock's curls, his head tilted toward Sherlock and his hand curved like a protective, loving shield over a fragile treasure. Comfort and security. The picture was cleverly cropped and exuded a sense of closeness and intimacy that took John's breath away. This wasn't so much an erotic image as it was a moving, intimate one.

John clicked through the rest of the pictures. Luc had photographed them with much more subtlety than it had felt like during the session. John's hand in Sherlock's hair, dark tendrils tumbling out from between his fingers. John's fair hair blending with Sherlock's as they embraced closely, Sherlock's tendoned hand shyly cupping the back of John's neck. 

Two expressive hands, a mix of hair. That was all. 

Profound warmth and togetherness. Sherlock's head tipped back, his full lips parted, eyes closed, John's lips on Sherlock's chin, also parted and barely grazing the skin, his eyes closed too, the edge of his hand in Sherlock's hair. An intense moment of utter devotion. The gentleness and calmness of the images touched him and stirred something up inside him. There was a shy affection that could be sensed throughout everything. 

John leaned back in his chair. The heat in his groin had spread through his body now and weighed heavily in his chest. This was all far more than faked erotic acts.

John closed his eyes when he felt Sherlock's hands on his shoulders. He'd heard him coming, heard him enter the living room, yet he hadn't found it in him to react. He'd simply let it happen, stayed seated where he was, the final image open on the screen. 

Sherlock didn't say anything. He'd come up behind him and placed his hands on John's shoulders. Something he'd never done before. The scent of shower gel and toothpaste. Sherlock in his pyjamas as he looked over John's shoulder. 

John flipped through the twelve images again, not speaking, letting each one linger on the screen for two or three seconds. He heard Sherlock breathing behind him, felt the warmth of his body at his back, the weight of his hands on his shoulders. It was quiet for a long time when the last picture came up again. 

Sherlock snorted softly. Then he reached past John to the keyboard of the laptop. His fingers brushed John's as he carefully pushed them aside and clicked back a few pictures. He looked at that one for a long moment. Then he sighed gently and pressed his face into John's hair, just briefly, before leaving the living room without another word.

John stayed where he was, bewildered. The touch of Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock's breath in his hair. Just a few fleeting moments. And the picture. Their faces close together, Sherlock's head slightly bowed, tangled hair overflowing from John's hand, which rested beside Sherlock's ear. Sherlock's hand on John's, his fingers appearing to slide between John's. John's face half hidden, half visible, narrow, gently curved lips, parted slightly, the depth of the grey in his eyes, a smile in there too, his gaze full of tenderness.

***

John found Luc in the bar on the first floor of the club, in the same place as the last time.

"John? You're here without your partner today, aren't you?"

"How'd you know?"

"You're relaxed." Luc smiled. "So? Do you two like the pictures?"

"Very much. But I think Sherlock wants to see the rest as well."

"You think. Hmm. Well, they belong to you. You can have all of them. Have you already decided which ones you want prints of?"

"No. We haven't agreed on one yet."

Luc smirked. "Your partner's not exactly an easy one, is he?"

John didn't answer, instead taking a sip of his beer. They hadn't looked at the pictures again. Sherlock had sent him to the club, tasked with interrogating Lucas Finch about Antonio. 

_You and Luc have a good rapport. And he knows more about Antonio, I'm sure of it. Can you attach yourself to him? I'll try to find out more about Antonio's family in the meantime._

John had complained about being sent alone to the club while Sherlock disappeared into thin air, but Sherlock had countered, "You fit in perfectly at that club. I'm just in the way there."

"You're insane!"

"Not that I know of."

Sherlock had left John standing there and simply taken off. John had been left behind, angry and disappointed.

"Have you lived with Jay for long?" John asked, in order to get the conversation with Luc moving along.

"Fourteen years," Luc answered. "You and Sherlock?"

Shit. John drank some beer in order to gain some time.

"A couple of months," he said evasively before asking, "Who's Antonio, actually?"

"Why do you ask?"

"He... fascinates me."

Luc laughed. "You're not the only one, believe me. But it's best you forget about him. He's not available anymore."

"Was he once? Available?"

Luc gave John an amused look. "Everyone who comes to the club is available, John. Otherwise they wouldn't be here."

"You too then?"

"Aren't you?"

John took a deep breath. They sat shoulder to shoulder again, as they had the first time. It was close at the bar, with lots of customers coming and going. Strangely, though, it still didn't bother John, even if he didn't much like the direction the conversation was taking.

"Why isn't Antonio here any more?" he asked.

"He has a steady boyfriend and moved away with him," Luc answered pensively.

"To Spain, I assume."

Luc put his beer down, turned to John, and gave him a thorough, critical look.

"Sherlock asked about that yesterday too. What do the two of you want from Antonio anyway? You're asking rather pointed questions about him, don't you think? Did his father send you?"

John cringed. Luc had hit the nail on the head. What did his father have to do with all of this?

"That's silly," John said as casually as possible. "He simply appeals to me, that's all. Why should his father send me? Who is his father anyway?"

Luc wrinkled his brow and fell silent, returning to his beer. His upper arm pressed against John's when he turned toward the bar. John let him. The music was pumping. John tried to figure out how he could get more information about Antonio and his father. Luc was pretty sensitive about the whole thing. Too sensitive. Sherlock was right: Luc knew more than he was saying. But he wouldn't allow direct questions.

John turned his head when someone put a hand on his shoulder, only to find himself looking into a pair of smiling brown eyes. The man was a little taller than him, probably a little older too. His dark hair was starting to turn grey at the temples. He was wearing a plain casual shirt and jeans, his body slim and athletic.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked in a friendly tone.

John didn't want to particularly, but it seemed prudent to leave Luc alone for the time being and give him some space. Let some time pass and distract him from the fact that John was here about Antonio. He'd try to talk to him again later.

The music thumped, the lights pulsed, the stranger danced smoothly and easily and without any put-upon airs. John tried to stick with him, made sure he stayed close by. It was fun, somehow, just moving with the crowd and following the music. John started to dance more boldly, the beat of the music pounding into his body, the light throbbing in his head. The other man's smile kept finding him, over and over. His eyes were alert and he made an intelligent, kindly impression. When the DJ put on a slow song, he moved closer to John and carefully laid his arms around his neck.

"All right for you?" he asked.

John stiffened for a moment, but then went with it. The stranger smelled fresh, like a spicy aftershave. His proximity was cautious, and didn't come across as pushy at all. John put his arms around the other man. Why not? He was in a gay club. He was a grown man and free to do as he pleased. 

The embrace was light and not unpleasant as they rocked to the music. John found he was feeling rather defiant toward Sherlock. He'd sent John here all alone and hared off, the 'couple in love' already forgotten. He hadn't even taken the time to look at the pictures again, much less talk about what had happened. Sherlock had simply done what he did best: roped John in and then taken off.


	6. Eight point seven

John was bathing in lava. All conscious thought was gone. Nothing existed other than this insane, oblivious combination of fire and intoxication. The panting at the back of his neck. The strong hands on his naked skin. John groaned as he'd never heard himself before. Beyond all control. 

The other man had gone for him as soon as they'd reached the furnace room. It was dark and damp, and it smelled like crude oil. He'd pulled John behind the oil tank, frantic, impatient, gasping with lust, grabbed him without much ado, reached between his legs, kneaded and rubbed him. His intent clear. No games. It was all about sex. That was all. He'd opened John's trousers, his hands flying, yanked them down. John had never been the object of such strong, breathless, uncompromising desire before in his life. It made him dizzy with excitement. He didn't understand himself anymore. 

The other man flipped him around so he was facing the wall. Lube-slick fingers massaged his cock, stroked along his perineum to his arse and penetrated him. John moaned, completely overwhelmed by the sensation of having another person inside him. He was on the edge of his self-control, mad with lust, felt the uncurbed arousal of the other man, the barely controlled greed. 

He panted with undiluted lust when the other man pushed into him with his penis. Carefully, despite his impatience. A strange, rough tenderness. The other man filled him completely, utterly -- powerful, strong, hard. John gasped for air. It was such an unfamiliar and unexpectedly strong feeling that John thought he was going to faint. 

The other man was gentle, attentive. Waited, gave him time. John was flooded with gratitude and... love? For just a couple of minutes? For this single moment of shared salacity? There was no judgment, no morality. The other man was inside him. The broad hand on his tight nipples. The heavy breathing in his ear. The unbridled lust of the man thrusting deep inside him. His own blind high. No commitments. John was so close to climaxing that he was almost at the point of despair. 

He groaned unchecked when he felt the other man come inside him. Hard and fierce. A foreign hand on his cock, sweeping him along with it just a moment later. The powerful orgasm robbed him of all sense of up and down. The other man remained inside him, held onto him for a few moments more. John held himself up with his hands against the cool wall, struggled for breath and to retain consciousness. 

He didn't even know the man's name. He wore a wedding ring and had waved off the query. No names.

Reality returned quite easily and practically. The stranger took the condom off, knotted it, passed John a handful of paper tissues. Borne of experience. Things that needed to be done. No shame. No romance. Just the small sense of having been together. Having done something together. Given each other something. Only a brief moment. No strings. The other man pulled up his trousers and closed his flies, then reached into John's hair, ran his hand through it, an unexpectedly tender gesture, pressed his face into it for a second or so.

"Thanks," he said hoarsely and left without another word.

 _Thanks._ Warm breath on John's scalp. Like Sherlock. A thick, painful lump formed in his chest.

***

"Antonio had three brothers and one sister, all of them older than him. He's the youngest. All of the children went to school in England and live in Spain today," Sherlock said. "The mother is there more than she is in England as well. She inherited several estates and distributed them amongst her children. Antonio has a house of his own in Spain, just as his siblings do, but lives mainly in England. At least up until a couple of weeks ago. His father assumed he'd fled to his country house in Spain, but he never arrived there."

"Is there proof he was on the flight?"

"Yes, he flew from London to Granada. That's where the trail ends."

"And what about his father? Did you find out why Luc thinks his father sent us after Antonio?"

"No. You'd better stay on Lucas Finch. And talk with Antonio's father again, John. Maybe we'll get somewhere with him."

"What about you?"

"I'm flying to Granada to confront his Spanish family."

"We should let Finch know about the photographs. He asked."

"Yes, right, the photographs. Pick one."

John took a deep breath and gave his friend a sceptical look where he sat at his laptop doing research, apparently unmoved.

"You wanted us to play a couple in love, Sherlock. Is that still on or can I go to Isabel's tonight?"

John's voice came out sounding sharper than he'd wanted. He didn't want to go to Isabel's. He wanted to provoke some reaction out of Sherlock with the question. Any reaction at all. Get his attention, maybe. Force some statement about what they were doing here, what the photographs meant, what the whole thing with Luc was about. Why he'd sent him to the club but hadn't come along. Why he wanted to fly to Granada alone.

Sherlock looked up and gave John a penetrating look.

"Of course it's still on! The case hasn't been solved, John."

"Then we should act like a couple. We'll fly to Granada together and go to the club together."

"No." Sherlock shook his head firmly. "I'm flying, you're going to the club."

"No, Sherlock."

"Why not?"

Sherlock's pale blue eyes were questioning. John regarded them for a long time. Did Sherlock truly not understand what was going on here? With him, with the two of them? Had the photoshoot left him untouched? Had it only been a game?

"We'll work most efficiently if we divide up," Sherlock said. "A couple can spend a few days apart once in a while."

John shook his head slowly. "No."

Sherlock's eyes reflected a lack of comprehension along with a hint of impatience.

"Sherlock. You asked me to go with you to the club as your partner because you didn't want to go there alone. Remember?" John spoke louder than usual, with an undertone of reproach. "But you want me to do it. I have to somehow get by in there on my own. That's not fair!"

"You can simply say no if someone comes on to you."

"Can I?"

John felt himself shaking inside. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. He gave John a searching look.

"That was my assumption."

"Why can't you come with me to the club?"

They held each other's gaze. A flicker of something in the icy blue eyes. Then Sherlock said, unexpectedly low, "It unsettles me."

John stared into the familiar eyes resting on him. The response hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

"It unsettles me too," he admitted, his voice trembling slightly. After several seconds of mutual silence, he added, "I'd like you to come with me. I don't want to go there by myself again."

"I'm flying to Granada today, John."

"When will you be back?"

"As soon as possible. As soon as I have some results. If all goes well, tomorrow."

"Then I'll wait until you're back and we'll go see Luc at the club together."

"That will be an unnecessary waste of time."

"I know."

They regarded each other silently. John didn't know whether Sherlock was deducing and drawing the correct conclusions or at least suspected what had happened. He didn't care. It was, in fact, frightening how little he cared. He was prepared to own up to it. He kept thinking about what he'd done, and it did disconcert him, but it weighed less heavily on his conscience than he'd feared at first. It hadn't been anything more than sex. What gave him food for thought wasn't the fact that he'd been with a man; he'd had the opportunity to try it out and he'd done it. That was fine, he was an adult. What concerned him much more deeply was the unfettered, mindless lust he'd felt at the time. A lust which was both unexpected and heretofore unknown to him. John had decided it was none of Sherlock's business, just as it was none of his business when he slept with women. They weren't actually a couple. He was a free man and responsible only for himself. He didn't owe Sherlock any explanations.

And yet. There was something there. Something that wouldn't let John go.

"Do you have the photographs on your laptop?" he asked.

"Yes."

John sat down beside Sherlock on the couch, reached for the keyboard, closed the window with the pedigree of Spanish nobility, opened the pictures folder, and browsed through it, letting each image linger on the screen.

"Look at them, Sherlock," he said. "What do you see?"

"The photographs we took at Luc's."

"A couple in love?"

"Yes. I think we carried it off quite well. The pictures are very nice. Luc has an excellent eye."

"How serious are you about it?" John asked.

"About what?"

"Being a couple in love."

Sherlock stared at the screen, not saying anything. John waited. He'd left the image up that Sherlock had looked at a second time that first night. 

Since Sherlock wasn't answering, John said, "Look at this picture, Sherlock. Look at it carefully. Something's happening between us in this picture, isn't it? It affects me. I can't deny it. It affects me quite a lot. All of this, everything that's happening here, I'm not unaffected by it, Sherlock." Then, since Sherlock didn't react, he added, "And you're not unaffected either."

"No," Sherlock said in a flat voice. He was still looking at the screen, not looking up.

"How serious are you about being a couple in love?" John asked again.

Sherlock still didn't say anything, kept his focus on the screen. The only outward sign was his breathing, which had become more rapid.

"Sherlock." John's voice was thick, no longer able to disguise his emotion. "Please. Give me a clear signal if there's something more to this than just a case."

"Eight point seven," Sherlock said. It came out low and strangled.

"Eight point seven?"

"On a scale of one to ten."

John took a deep breath before letting it out again. Eight point seven. Whatever that might mean in detail, it was a lot. A hell of a lot. John thought in alarm about how serious it was for him, on a scale of one to ten. Six? More than five anyway. Serious, yes. But how serious? Eight point seven was high. Unnervingly high. 

John swallowed hard. They sat next to each other on the couch as if they'd collapsed in exhaustion. Pressed tightly together, shoulders, hips and thighs in close contact. John noticed only now the heat rolling off of Sherlock as he felt him struggling to modify his breathing. That was new. It was new for Sherlock to allow this amount of physical contact, possibly even to have initiated it, John didn't know, he hadn't paid attention. Eight point seven. It was an answer that went beyond John's capacity to process it. It was too high. The number was too high to grasp what it meant.

"We'll take all of them," Sherlock said into the loaded silence.

"All of what?"

"All of the pictures. All twelve. I can't choose just one. They're all good. Luc should make prints of all of them."

"Okay."

John was still too bowled over by Sherlock's admission to say anything more than that. Instead, he said, not sure what he was asking, "Please, don't fly to Granada, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock took a deep breath. He didn't respond to John's request. Instead, he said impassively as he appeared to continue focusing on the screen, "I like this picture best of all of them. Our hands are together. And your eyes are beautiful. Luc really is a pro."

"Yeah, he is," John agreed, unable to say anything else. He felt Sherlock trembling slightly beside him.

Barely a second later, Sherlock powered down the laptop and stood up. He appeared disorientated and nervous, packed the computer in its case, gathered up several items in a state of confusion. He didn't look at John, only saying after a quick glance at his watch, "The taxi to the airport will be here in two minutes."


	7. The Ship Builder

George von Plat Manderville lived outside of London on a stately property that included a park with trees, surrounded by a two-meter high wrought iron fence. Three dogs came bounding down the gravel driveway, barking at John when he buzzed at the gate. A butler answered over the intercom, inquiring after his name and business. It took several more minutes before John was let in. The butler called the dogs off and picked him up at the gate. 

The villa was built in a classical style and was surprisingly unostentatious, looking more like a rustic retreat than a showcase home. John was led into a side chamber and asked to wait. He looked around, his curiosity piqued. 

The room was conspicuously spare and neat as a pin. White stucco, old-fashioned chandelier. A plain, double-tiered davenport made of walnut on one wall. Not a speck of dust on the dark wood. In the corner between the high lattice window and a wooden door - of which the room boasted three - there was a round salon table with two chairs. These furnishings were in a simple, classic style as well. There was a white lace tablecloth on the table, along with that morning's Times. Nothing else. No pictures on the walls, no photographs or knick-knacks on the writing desk, nothing that might allow any personal insights at all. 

The parquet floor creaked under John's feet as he went to the window and looked out over the park. A man was working in the rose beds - apron, gardening gloves, pruning shears. Like a page straight out of a book.

George von Plat Manderville was friendly, in a formal sort of way. He invited John into his study and gestured toward a chair in front of his desk.

"What can I do for you, Dr Watson?"

"We have no indication that your son was abducted or that anything untoward has happened to him. He flew to Granada, we can prove that much. Nothing's been reported to the police there. Why do you think that Antonio's disappearance has anything to do with the circles he ran in?"

"What else would it have to do with? He always took men from that club with him to Spain, spent holidays with them at his house. I can't recall him ever flying there alone."

"Did Antonio have a long-term partner? A boyfriend?

"Not that I know of. They're all rather promiscuous in those circles. Well, you'll know all about that."

John politely overheard the remark. "But your son must have friends, people he trusted outside of that milieu as well."

"Of course. His business partner. A serious family man. Not gay."

"What's this man's name?"

John wrote down the name and address. It was for a solicitor's office in the best part of the city.

"Your son is an engineer. Why is his business partner a lawyer?" John asked.

"Antonio is an independent Naval architect."

"He builds boats?" John was surprised.

"He constructs and designs ships," von Plat Manderville corrected him. "His partner takes care of patents and the like. It's a tough business, even with government contracts."

"What do you mean by government contracts?"

"Royal Navy. You'd do best to talk to his business partner about what exactly it is he does. I'm not involved. My son and I – Well. We don't have much in common."

"And yet you've inofficially commissioned a search for him. Why? He's an adult and there's no indication that anything's happened to him."

"Your job is to find him, not to inquire after my reasons." Manderville's demeanour cooled perceptibly. 

John tried to remain calm. He nodded in a pacifying manner and said, "It would be helpful if we had some sort of indication as to why he's disappeared. Do you have any suspicions?"

George von Plat Manderville snorted. He got up from his chair and walked a few paces, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of the window and looked out silently for a while. 

John waited, giving him time. After several long seconds, von Plat Manderville turned around, returned to his desk and sat down again.

"I don't know why Antonio's vanished," he said slowly. "A Swedish shipyard wants to build a replica of the Flying P-Liner. Antonio re-worked the old blueprints and re-designed the ships. He should have met with the shipyard's engineer five weeks ago, but he never showed up. You must understand that's quite unusual. Antonio may lead a peculiar private life, but he's very reliable when it comes to business."

"You seem to be well informed about your son's business dealings."

"The owner of the shipyard is an old friend of mine. I set Antonio up with him. But Antonio apparently flew to Granada rather than Sweden. And there's been no sign of him since."

"Your guess?"

"The most obvious conclusion would be that he took off with some man or other."

"Why should he do that? What would he be running from?"

"Antonio had no reason to run from anything. But the other man might."

"Do you have any idea who this other man might be?"

"No. Not a clue. I don't really care, either. I just want my son back." Von Plat Manderville stared into the distance for a moment, his expression hardening. Then he turned back to John and said with a helpless smile, "There are so many men around Antonio, you see."

***

"Sherlock. How are things in Granada?"

"Good. I'm at my hotel now. I was able to talk to Antonio's mother. There's a fourth brother: Oliverio Fernando Cirilo von Plat Manderville. He calls himself Cirilo Martell, apparently. Could you ask Antonio's father and Luc about him?"

John blew out a breath and paced up and down in the living room. Sherlock's voice sounded clear and very close by, as if he were in the next room.

"Sherlock. I already went to see Antonio's father. What about this brother?"

"He was officially disinherited and sent away. At any rate, he changed his name and no one knows where he is."

"Not even his mother?"

"No. Gone and written off, years ago now. He was even photoshopped out of the family portrait photograph."

"Any idea why?"

"Not yet. I'm going to visit the three acknowledged brothers and the sister tomorrow, but I don't hold out much hope. I think Luc's a better bet. He knows more. There may even be a photograph of Cirilo."

"Do you think this brother has something to do with Antonio's disappearance?"

"I can't rule it out."

"All right. If he was born in London, he must have been registered. I'll try the civil records."

"I don't know whether he was born in London."

"We'll find out."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock's voice became soft around the edges. "How about you?"

John let himself collapse onto the couch and closed his eyes. "Antonio developed a submarine for the Royal Navy. Some spectacular, brand new marine technology. Experts in the field consider him a ship-building genius and a master of hydrodynamics. He designed a carbon sailboat that can reach top speeds at the slightest breeze. It's supposed to take part in this year's America's Cup. Its registration's been challenged by one of the opposing parties on the grounds of not following the construction regulations, though. The dispute hasn't been ruled on yet."

"I'll talk to Mycroft about the sub."

"And the America's Cup?"

"Irrelevant."

"Then there's a shipyard in Sweden..."

"Yes, I know. It's not involved."

"Sure?"

"Fairly."

"Okay."

They both fell silent. Sherlock's breath sounded in John's ear. Neither of them ended the call, though.

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked after a while.

John still had his eyes closed. He took a deep breath. "When are you coming back?"

"I don't know yet, John. Day after tomorrow at the latest, I should think."

"Call me again, okay?" And after a brief hesitation, "Lovers do that, you know."

It was quiet on the other end of the line for the space of two heartbeats.

"I know." Sherlock's voice was pure satin. "Until later, John."

"Later."

Click. John lowered the mobile phone. Sherlock's unusually warm, sonorous voice. His breath directly in John's ear. The warmth suffusing his body. A light vibration in his loins. _Lovers. Eight point seven._ Could this be – happiness? 

John smiled.

***

Sometimes he only agreed to take the night shift at Bart's A&E grudgingly, especially when he had to step in on short notice and the request came so late. This time, however, John agreed right away. It released him from continuing the investigation and going to the club. In a way, it took the responsibility for the decision out of his hands. John had been going back and forth with himself on whether to acquiesce to Sherlock's request or not. He'd been this close to going to see Lucas Finch, even at the club if need be. Now, in hindsight, John couldn't imagine the same thing happening to him again as had happened the last time. He'd drunk too much, hadn't been in control of himself. It was a one-time slip-up. That was fine. He could just say no in future. Sherlock was right.

John was familiar with emergency medicine. He was a sought-after expert when it came to injuries. Sometimes it was a way to re-charge. Especially when Sherlock was irritably digging around in a case, blinders on both eyes, his mind on a single track, hyperactive, inattentive, obnoxious. At times like that, the shifts at Bart's were a welcome time-out from his tiresome flatmate with his imperative demands, from the case, from the investigation, from the strain and the danger. 

This time was different. This time it distracted him from the fact that Sherlock wasn't there.

John was busy that night, working until well into the morning. It felt good to get his hand in there like that, to talk to his colleagues and co-workers. Being a doctor was a good job. John loved it. He realised that once again at some point during that hectic night, and he thought about taking on more hours in future. Not just part-time locum work or covering in A&E. He was a good doctor, he could do more than he currently put into it. John resolved to ask about any openings. 

It would change things. Including things with Sherlock. But somehow everything was changing. With Sherlock. With his life. Somewhere inside, something was starting to shift, opening new perspectives. Odd. 

John thought about it while he irrigated the wound of a teenager who had fallen through a pane of glass in a drunken haze. And he gently probed for that sensation that he carried with him the whole time now, that gentle vibration that warmed him whenever he thought of Sherlock. And he thought of him constantly. All the time. Six was too low on a scale of one to ten. Maybe six point five. 

Seven was still just a bit too high.

***

The brother did exist after all. Oliverio Fernando Cirilo von Plat Manderville. He was listed in London's birth registry, apparently born a year and a half after Antonio. John had flirted quite hard with the young woman at the registration office in order to get more information. Oliverio was last mentioned in the ward lists six years earlier and apparently left London after that.

Sherlock wasn't answering his phone so John sent a text. He'd slept on into the afternoon following his unexpectedly long night shift, then gone to the registration office. He stopped at the shops on his way home and thought about what he should do next. 

Sherlock hadn't reported in since the previous day, neither by phone nor by text. The lack of communication wasn't anything new. When Sherlock was busy and didn't need John for anything, he simply didn't think of him. Lovers or not. John smirked, but he couldn't entirely suppress his disappointment. Calling just to hear each other's voice was apparently too romantic for someone like Sherlock. He simply didn't seem to have a need for it. 

John tried to reach Sherlock again, but his phone was turned off. He left a message in Sherlock's voice mailbox, then decided to go over to Lucas Finch's studio to order the prints and take a look at the other 186 pictures. Maybe he could find out something more about Antonio's brother at the same time.

Luc wasn't in his studio, nor in the club. John had checked in the bar on the first floor of Cranberry but decided to leave again after that. He definitely did not not want to hang out there. 

Just as he stepped out the door into the street, though, someone touched his arm and said, "Hello! Nice to see you!"

The other man had just been about to go into the club. His brown eyes gleamed as he smiled. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt, just as he had the first time, with a leather jacket on top. He looked athletic and elegant despite the casual clothes and he smelled clean and fresh. A tall, slim body, touch of grey in his hair, manicured fingernails. Wedding ring.

"I'm not at the club today," John said coolly.

The other man smiled. "Neither am I," he said. "I'd like to go get a bite to eat. Somewhere quiet. Care to join me?"

John tamped down his initial impulse to run away and searched the dark, attentive eyes.

"Why should I?" he asked.

The man laughed. An easy, bubbling sound. He put his hand on John's arm, just lightly. There was nothing forceful about the gesture.

"I'm hungry and it's much more fun to eat with someone than alone. You're intelligent and nice. We're not exactly strangers. Why not?"

_Because we had sex._ John only thought it, but the event in the furnace room seemed far away somehow. Another universe. He couldn't imagine so much as touching the man standing before him now. Dancing with him, hugging him. And he had to eat sometime too; he would have made himself a little something at home otherwise. 

"I don't even know your name," John said, still teetering.

"We can eat together anyway, can't we?" The man grinned. "I know a good restaurant right here in the neighbourhood. They have excellent fish. Shall we?"


	8. Return

It was one of the city's typical business hotels. Upscale. Huge. Anonymous. Lonely. Room 847. Eighth floor, a view of London's cityscape at night. 

John didn't see any of it. The air boiled between them as soon as they closed the door of the hotel room behind them. John lost all sense of control. The other man had already undone John's trousers and pushed him down onto the bed. Frantic hands removed every scrap of clothing from John's lower body. He was hard already. Hot, moist lips, a clever tongue. John groaned in surprise, clawed his fingers into the hair on the head between his legs. 

The other man sucked at him, licked him. Strong hands pushed his thighs apart, mercilessly exposing his genitals. John felt completely powerless. It aroused him more than he could comprehend. He came fast and completely unchecked in the warm hollow of the man's mouth.

The other man put a condom on. Lubricant. He pushed John down onto the bed, gentle but firm, lay down on top of his back and slid into him, moved slowly and carefully. John felt like he was in a daze. His orgasm had barely passed before the other man's desire rekindled his lust anew. Not fast. Slowly. Very slowly. The hands running possessively over his body. Breath. Heat. The other man's long, tantalising thrusts accompanied by unrestrained moans. John could feel that the other man was almost at the point of climaxing inside him, but kept stopping, waiting, on the edge of his self-control. 

John was panting. He was hard again already when the other man couldn't stand it any longer and discharged his semen inside him with a strong contraction.

He called himself Alex. It wasn't his real name. He hugged John from behind, held him for a while. They were both gasping. Both sweating. The effluvium of desire and shivery arousal. A strong male hand on the back of John's neck, then in his hair, where it clutched and held on firmly. It hurt. John groaned. The hand held him in place while the other one moved down his body, greedy and possessive, in that unrepentant yet tender way that made John lose his head completely, slid between his legs and massaged his cock, once again rampant.

"Come in me," Alex whispered hoarsely into his ear.

He rolled a condom down over John's penis, applied slick to it and stroked him so obscenely that it didn't take long before John was hard as a rock again. The other man didn't wait, sat right down on top of him and took him in. John held his breath. It was tight and unbelievably exciting. He felt the other man's readiness and desire and it drove him mad when the man started moving up and down on him.

They had time for each other now. The initial frantic hunger had been sated. Now there was room to play. They enjoyed each other without restraint, freely, no shame. 

When John showered, it was morning already. He'd fallen asleep in the hotel room with the man who called himself Alex, and they'd had sex again when they woke. John didn't understand how it was possible. He'd never experienced anything like this before. It was as if his desire increased with every breath with which he inhaled the other man's scent.

"How can I reach you next time I'm in London?" Alex asked when John was about to leave.

"We won't be seeing each other again." John felt his stomach clench painfully when he said it.

"Why not?"

"I'm committed to someone else."

"I am too," the other man said slowly. "I have a family. Kids."

"I don't want to know about them."

Alex kissed him. Desperate. They held each other's gaze for a long time. They didn't say anything else. John left. He turned around in the doorway one more time and looked into the brown eyes, now so deep and full of emotion.

The city stuttered past outside in the brooding summer heat. John stared out the window of the taxi, stuck in the morning rush hour traffic. His groin burned with the night's efforts. He felt satiated in a way he never had before. It felt euphoric, yet it scared him. Something gnawed at him deep down, beneath the euphoria. It hurt. 

The dinner with Alex had been one of the best evenings of his life. They'd agreed to lie to each other, not to reveal their names or identities. John had called himself Daniel and said he was a journalist. The other man called himself Alex and said he was a gynaecologist. It was the funniest and wildest conversation John had ever had. An insane game. Alex had proven to be clever and funny. 

Then, later, the bar at the hotel. Whisky. The other man's hand provocatively on the inside of his thigh, caressing. Intimate whispers. No hiding, no bashfulness about what anyone else might see. And John's strong reaction. Unable to hide it. John had numbed himself with a whisky, unable to flee. Unable to withstand the want that rolled over him. He'd shattered each and every one of his resolutions with another whisky, had looked into the openly lust-filled brown eyes and thrown all of his reservations overboard after a deep kiss in the lift.

It was a new paradigm that unsettled John. His body directed what happened, overriding his intellect. It was – impossible. Utterly impossible. And yet it had happened.

When John finally arrived at Baker Street, it was late in the morning. John knew Sherlock was there as soon as he started up the stairs. He could sense the difference in the atmosphere. Maybe it was the light footfalls that the stairs still held a memory of, maybe it was the familiar scent suspended in the walls of the staircase, fresh and untouched. A hint of pheromones. The scent of the man he shared his life with. Sherlock.

John stopped in the doorway to the living room. Sherlock had looked up from his laptop and jumped out of his seat. The smile on his face died the moment their eyes met. Sherlock reached for the back of the chair with one hand, held himself up. They just stood there across from each other, the hot, dusty air of the living room between them, watching each other. John knew that Sherlock was drawing conclusions. Probably the right ones.

"I came with the first flight this morning," Sherlock said. Then he asked hesitantly, "You didn't spend the night here?"

"No." John leaned on the doorframe for support. He felt like a traitor. His loins still burned. "It's good that you're back," he said softly.

Sherlock's icy blue eyes flickered uncertainly. His nostrils flared. He could certainly smell the foreign scent.

"You weren't with Isabel."

"No. I'll go shower and change."

John was about to turn around when Sherlock said, stunned and dismayed, "You were with a man."

His voice trembled. The force of the realisation seemed to suck all the blood out of his face. He was ashen. John tried to keep himself together. His mouth was dry.

"Yes," he finally said. He decided not to lie. What had happened changed too much between them to play games. It might even have changed everything.

"Was it the first time?"

"No."

Sherlock staggered. He gripped the chair to keep himself upright.

"The same man?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Yes."

"Is it serious?"

John hesitated. He had wanted to say no at first, but that wasn't the entire truth. What had happened with Alex changed his life, even if Alex was gone now and he wasn't going to see him again.

"Yes and no," he said. "I don't know."

Sherlock looked down at the floor at his feet for a long time. His hand dug into the back of the chair, turning his knuckles white. The silence hung heavy between them. Then Sherlock raised his head. There were tears in his eyes. John's heart clenched and his throat closed up. Sherlock didn't say anything, just looked at John. Tears freed themselves and rolled down his cheeks. John was dizzy with the grief in those pale blue eyes. He felt sick from the smell of the other man, which still clung to his clothing, rising unassailably into his nose; from the satisfying heaviness of his genitals and the lush vibration there; from the clump of lead in his chest, threatening to suffocate him.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said softly and Sherlock nodded.

John tossed his clothing into the laundry basket, washed his hair, let the hot water beat down on his body for a long time. He could still feel the other man when he closed his eyes. His hands, his penis. He could still see the brown eyes in front of him, the open desire in them, the emotion. 

But he lived with Sherlock. That was a fact. He'd set his life up around Sherlock. The hub of his existence. A central focus that couldn't be moved, not even for two days or a single night, not even with a woman. If that happened, it hurt Sherlock. Eight point seven. That was too much. Too much expectation. Too much hurt. Too much fear. It wouldn't work. It wouldn't work as long as they weren't really a couple. 

He was a grown man, he needed sex. If not at home, then somewhere else. That would always hurt Sherlock. Sex with Sherlock? Maybe. At least he knew now that a man satisfied him just as much as a woman – if not more. 

John let the water run over his head. Yes, they might have tried it. But how? Talk about it? Neither he nor Sherlock was any good at that. Just reach out and touch? The man who'd been his friend for so many years? Difficult. Sherlock wasn't as light-hearted and uncomplicated as Alex. Nor did he have much experience, that was for sure.

John turned the taps off. He flinched when the shower curtain was pulled back. Sherlock sat on the toilet lid watching him, his eyes red from crying. John reached for the towel, wrapped it around his waist. 

Sherlock said, "Don't. I want to see you naked."

"Why?"

"The other man saw you like that, didn't he?"

"Yes. And I saw him," John said as he took the towel off again and rubbed his hair dry. As he did, he went over to Sherlock, bent down to look him in the eye and said, irritated, "This is kid stuff, Sherlock. Playing doctor. It's for four-year-olds. Grown-ups shower together at the gym and in the military. Everyone sees each other naked. Yeah?"

Sherlock swallowed, but he was only off-balance for a moment. "We have to start somewhere. With kid stuff if need be," he said firmly and started unbuttoning his shirt.

He stood up and undressed, holding John's gaze. John had stopped drying himself in surprise, and shook his head, confused.

"Sherlock, what is all this? I'm taking a shower. Sex doesn't work like this."

Sherlock now stood directly in front of him, completely naked. He reached into John's hair, surprisingly rough, and pressed his nose into John's damp neck for several seconds, inhaling the air there.

"Then show me how sex works," he said, shoved John away with a light push and went into the shower, pulling the curtain closed.

"I found Antonio, by the way," Sherlock said over the rush of the water.

"Why didn't you contact me?"

"I'll tell you after."

***

John couldn't sleep. The room was oppressively hot. A thunderstorm was gathering outside, and the day kept spinning around in his head and in his chest. Sherlock's report about Antonio. The photograph: Antonio and a dark-skinned man, another beauty. An amateur snapshot. Both smiling happily. Antonio with his brother Oliverio Fernando Cirilo, who now went by Cirilo Martell and was apparently either illegitimate or at best a half-brother.

"Antonio's with his brother in Cuba," Sherlock had said. "Luc knows all about it and has the address. Antonio is working on a secret project for the Cuban Navy that's apparently of interest to the intelligence community. His family knows or at least suspects that he's with his brother but no one knows where they're living. Cirilo went underground years ago."

"Do we know why?"

"Yes. Cirilo and Antonio are together. Inseparable. Antonio's father disinherited Cirilo and sent him away when he found out. Cirilo was eighteen at the time."

"He doesn't look like Antonio's brother."

"He's a half-brother, an illegitimate child borne by George's wife. Multiple no-go's for von Plat Manderville: the unpopular son of a stranger as the obvious stain on the family's reputation, who then to add insult to injury takes George's highly intelligent favourite and heir apparent to bed and turns him into a fag. He could even have lived with the gay part. But not with his brother."

"Half-brother."

"Doesn't matter. He was the wrong person in every respect. Apparently Manderville had planned to marry Antonio off to the daughter of his friend from the Swedish shipyard. An entire dynasty of filthy rich shipping magnates."

"What happens if we disclose Antonio's whereabouts?"

"We're not going to do that, John. That's why we need to talk to Luc. The trails that led me to Luc need to disappear. Antonio's father won't give up that easily. The two brothers have been running from him for a long time. They've tried it before. This time it worked. We're not going to ruin it. But I'm afraid there's another complication."

"What's that?"

"We don't know what Antonio's building over there for the Cubans."

The case wasn't the only thing rumbling around in John's head and heart. There was Sherlock too. Sherlock's disappointment over the thing with Alex. The sudden mutual abrasiveness, over and over again. The unfortunate attempts at communication.

"Are you going to see him again?"

"No. He's left London. He was only here on a business trip."

"No contact information?"

"No."

"What if you happen to run into him somewhere?"

"That's not very likely."

"But what if?"

"Sherlock, please, what is all this? Is this an interrogation or something?"

"I want to know everything about him."

"No. It's none of your business, Sherlock."

"You're trying to protect him!"

"Yes, I bloody well am! What happened between us belongs to me, Sherlock, not you. I'm not going to expose it to your jealousy."

"Give me a chance to understand."

"No. Learn to live with it."

"John, please."

"You didn't contact me once the entire time. You promised to call."

"I went to talk to an informant and turned my phone off so I couldn't be tracked. John, someone tried to access my mobile data. Are you going to hold that against me?"

"No. I'm not going to do anything. Now leave me alone."

John was rudely shaken out of his brooding when a crack of thunder split the night. Lightning flashed outside the wide-open window. A moment later it began to rain. 

John got up, lowered the blinds, and lay back down on the rumpled bed. Water slashed mercilessly against the slats. A breath of coolness and the scent of moisture seeped into the musty room. 

John stared at the play of light on the ceiling as the lightning flickered. Wind and rain battled the crackling thunder with howls and hammers. An ear-splitting inferno. John heard the door open anyway. The soft click. The floorboards creaking under Sherlock's naked feet. 

John opened his arms and enveloped the haggard figure as it sank down on the bed and buried itself in him. Legs intermeshed with his. A light pyjama, humid with sweat, covering a hot, angular body. Wetness welled up against John's neck, found its way across his skin and into his pillow. John ran his hand through the tangled hair, pressed his face into it and breathed in the spicy dampness, the smell of the man he shared his life with.


	9. The Advice

Lucas Finch gave John and Sherlock a searching look when he opened the door of his photography studio for them.

"So it's you two," he said thoughtfully. "Come in."

It was possible that Sherlock's appearance shocked or at least surprised him. Sherlock had cried half the night in John's arms, and he looked it. John had pointed it out to him in the morning, but Sherlock had got dressed, suit and button-down like always, and said, "He knows what it's like. Luc understands. He's seen it in Jay often enough."

"How do you know?"

"Deduced it."

John hadn't asked which facts Sherlock based his deduction on. They hadn't said much at all that morning. Both were exhausted. John had woken first and let Sherlock keep sleeping on the other side of the bed while he went to shower. Afterwards, he'd gone back to his room, naked, found some clothes and got dressed while his friend watched, pale blue eyes beneath swollen lids, nestled amongst pillows, pyjama sleeves and tangled hair. 

The room smelled different. Two men. Tears. The burden of unresolved longing. Naked skin. John didn't know why this intimacy was important to Sherlock. But it was something he could do for him. Give him access to his nude body, even if only visually at the moment.

Lucas Finch didn't lead John and Sherlock into the studio area of the former factory space. Instead, he took them to the left, into the private rooms, although they didn't look much different from the rest. Everything was open and easy to access, with furniture loosely delineating the space into differently purposed sections. Ideal for a wheelchair. Jay sat in his at the kitchen table.

"We're still eating breakfast," Luc said. "Come join us. Coffee?"

He moved a six-pack of mineral water off a chair and pushed the chair over to the table. John and Sherlock sat down.

"Help yourselves," Jay said, indicating the late breakfast spread.

He smiled at John and Sherlock with his breathtakingly beautiful eyes as he added a generous layer of apricot preserves to a slice of whole wheat bread. He was still in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, his hair unwashed and gathered up into a loose pony tail with a few blond tendrils hanging in his face. 

Luc set two cups in front of John and Sherlock and poured them some coffee.

"I assume you're not just here for the photographs," he said. He still appeared sombre and pensive. "It's about Antonio."

"I found him," Sherlock said. "And I presume that's not exactly the result you wanted."

"What do you want from me?"

Luc's words were curt, but his voice was gentle and bore a trace of concern. Sherlock passed a piece of paper to him across the table.

"These are the tracks that need to disappear to keep Antonio and Cirilo safe. Can you make it happen?"

Jay stopped eating. Astonishment on his face. Luc stared at the page in his hand with disbelief. He raised his eyes to give Sherlock a doubtful look. Then to John. Something supplanted the surprise in his blue eyes that was difficult to define. Consternation, perhaps.

"I thought you were working for Antonio's father," he said.

"We are," Sherlock replied. "But in the face of the facts I've discovered we're going to have to inform our client that Antonio can't be found. A lie, of course. I found him in four days. Admittedly, my analytic prowess is superior by orders of magnitude to that of other people. The probability that Antonio will be discovered by anyone of average intellect is quite low, but it can't be ruled out entirely. Bearing in mind that intelligence agencies will be interested in his current activities as well, I'd advise you to act quickly. As soon as we tell Antonio's father that we weren't able to locate him, he'll try it another way. That's why we're going to wait a couple of days. That's your window. How long will you need?"

"Give me two days," Luc said as he studied the list. "I'll fly to Granada today." He met Sherlock's eye. "As for my end – I'll take care of it right away. I was naïve. Thank you. I'll take down the pictures immediately. I don't know an Antonio anymore."

"You were only one of the trails."

"I was the entry point to all of them."

"Antonio's father will send another man to the club. He won't give up so easily. He cannot be allowed to get any further." Sherlock handed another piece of paper to Jay. "The access data for the server where the passenger lists for the flights from Granada to Cuba are stored. The name needs to be changed in three databases. It requires a bit of hacking, but I think you're the right person for the job."

Jay smirked. "Yeah, I am," he said, his eyes flashing with excitement at the prospect of a new adventure.

"What about Esma?" Luc asked, pointing at an item on the list. "I can't just make her disappear."

"She's an old woman and easily confused. That makes her dangerous. If you ask her the right questions you can get everything out of her. We have three options: innoculate her with false information, hire a round-the-clock minder, or prevent her from being found. Or a combination of all three."

"She's the great-aunt, well over eighty, and highly intelligent. Antonio worships the ground she walks on. He spent a lot of time with her and poured his heart out to her."

"And he obviously told her too much. She's the weakest link."

"He asked her for advice. I wouldn't be surprised if some of their escape plans came from her fertile imagination. But she's losing ground to dementia, can't argue with that."

"We'll send Alfredo to her," Jay said. "He's always wanted to go to Spain and I'll be fine without him. What do you think? We can handle it financially, can't we?"

Luc looked at Jay in surprise, stared into his eyes for a long time, and for the first time since John and Sherlock had come in, a smile passed over the photographer's face. It was so affectionate and fraught with meaning that John had to look away.

"Is it a workable solution?" Sherlock asked.

Luc nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on Jay's. "An ideal solution," he said.

"Who's Alfredo?" John asked.

"My zealous carer," Jay answered with a smile. "Former decathlete and up for any adventure."

Half an hour later, Luc brought his two visitors to the door. Before he opened it, he placed one hand on John's back and the other on Sherlock's upper arm and asked, "What happened between you two?"

His eyes found Sherlock's and searched them. The pale eyes flickered. Sherlock hesitated, clearly unsettled. Then he said with a shockingly bitter smile, "Too much to deal with. Too little to live with."

John shivered, strongly affected by the words. The pressure of Luc's hand on his back increased for a moment. Luc looked down at the floor, took a deep breath and let it out slowly and audibly. Then he looked up again, met Sherlock's gaze and said, clearly moved, "There's always one who loves more."

They held each other's gaze for a long time: Sherlock and Luc. Probing, perhaps surprised.

"Tell him what you need, Sherlock." Luc's voice was sombre and low. 

Sherlock nodded, the motion barely visible. 

Luc lowered his eyes again after a few seconds and let out a long breath. Then he turned to John, slow and pensive. His blue eyes focused on John's grey ones as he spoke, his voice still thick: "John, don't just listen to him with your ears. Take time for each other. Promise me that. Both of you?"

Heavy silence. John's gaze passed over Sherlock's face but they didn't really look at each other. No one said anything. After a few more moments, Luc opened the door quietly and hung back as John and Sherlock stepped outside.

"Thank you for everything you've done," he said. "But now take care of yourselves, all right?"

"I was wrong," Sherlock said after they'd walked a few paces down the street in silence. "It's not Jay who cries. It's Luc. When Jay's slept with his decathlete and Luc escapes to the club so he doesn't choke on it."

***

A Mycroft Holmes does not rant. His features merely fossilise, his mouth becoming a thin line and the eyes hardening to steel buttons.

"Manderville is wasting our time for nothing," Sherlock said. "His son is partying and having gay orgies on some Spanish beach or other. That's HIS business, he's an adult. You should make clear to your friend Plat Manderville once and for all that his beloved Antonio doesn't dance to his tune any longer, and is not going to marry the daughter of any Swedish shipyard owner. Maybe your friend has – well – unusual priorites? By the way, he pulled strings to set Antonio up building a submarine for the Royal Navy. Rather delicate matter, don't you think? I mean, we're talking about a secret contract with sensitive data. Bribery in the course of assigning contracts like that must fall in your purview. Or am I wrong?"

Mycroft's face was a pale mask. "The submarine doesn't concern you," he said stiffly. "Your task is to find Antonio. His precise address. Is that clear?"

"Not a problem." Sherlock waved dismissively, making it more than clear how trivial the issue was. 

Mycroft twisted his mouth and indicated with a curt gesture that the audience was over.

"You lied to your brother and turned the tables on Manderville," John said in astonishment once they'd left the house and no one else could hear them.

"Of course. Why shouldn't I? I'm the only one in a position to do so. Mycroft is clever. One word out of place and he'll see right through you."

"And you think he bought what you were selling?"

"Of course he did. He's my brother. He has his emotional weak spots. I've known him long enough and well enough. Too bad for him. Even a genius can have a lime-tree leaf fall on his shoulder."

"On his heart," John corrected him. "The leaf falls right on the spot on Siegfried's back that makes it possible to stab him in the heart. Right between the third and fourth ribs. It's so disastrous because Siegfried doesn't realise it and believes he's invincible."

"Happens to all of us," Sherlock said with a bitter undertone.

Before John could reply to that, Sherlock had hailed a taxi and climbed inside. John settled in next to him on the back seat.

"Regent's Park zoo?" he asked in surprise.

"If you don't mind."

"What are we doing there?"

"Looking at animals. It's supposed to be relaxing and pleasant."

"Okay. If you want to." It was clear from John's tone of voice that he wasn't sure what to make of it all.

"I thought we could stretch our legs a bit," Sherlock continued, hesitant now. "The air is fresh after that storm. And I haven't been in a zoo since I was a child. I'd like to go with you."

"Fine. Good."

"We could take some time for each other. Luc said we should."

"Yes. Yeah, you're right."

John felt his heart pounding. It was completely new for Sherlock to suggest something like this. Spending leisure time together. He'd never done anything like it before. Whenever they had some down time, Sherlock had tried to destroy it as quickly as possible. Leisure time was boring. And now this. A stroll together in the zoo. Looking at animals. Taking time for each other. Like two lovers. 

John looked over at Sherlock sitting next to him, stiff and uncertain, his eyes still reddened. John couldn't get the night out of his head. Sherlock falling apart in his arms. It was astonishing how matter-of-fact the whole thing had been. No embarrassment, neither on Sherlock's part nor his. So much closeness and trust. _Don't just listen with your ears._

They sat very close together, as they had become accustomed to recently. John leaned a little more heavily on Sherlock's shoulder, felt him pushing back. Sherlock wasn't trying to get away; rather, he was responding in kind. John closed his eyes for a while, relished the warmth between them and thought about what he should do. 

Sherlock and he had become so much closer in the past few days. And it felt good. Good and even uplifting, in a certain way. There was something like longing lurking in there, maybe hope, a secret promise, the foreshadow of something unexpected. Should he...? Just thinking about it made John's pulse rate shoot up. He took a deep breath before opening his eyes and feeling for the thin, nervous hand lying on Sherlock's knee. He cautiously caressed the back of Sherlock's hand with the tips of his fingers, felt the brief flinch. But Sherlock didn't take his hand away, and John carefully laid his on top of it. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Would you like us to go to the zoo as lovers?" John's voice was rough and low. His heart was galloping. 

Sherlock didn't answer for a long time. And when he did, the reply wasn't one that could be heard. Instead, Sherlock turned his hand over slowly and opened it for John. It was such a clear and intimate invitation that John closed his eyes before accepting it, slid his hand into Sherlock's, palm to palm, nestled into it tenderly, aware down to the last nerve ending what it was that he was doing. Sherlock's fingers felt their way in between his, shy but determined, interlaced with them. Just for a moment, John struggled to breathe. The premeditated intimacy of the touch flooded his entire body with such warmth that he almost sighed out loud. They didn't look at each other, just sat there, held onto each other, their hot hands pressed together, hearts racing, breathing hard. John looked out the window without seeing anything that was out there. What was happening to him? So much turmoil over such a simple touch.


	10. Transitions

The air was damp from last night's storm, the sky overcast. The rain of the past few hours hung heavily in the leaves of the trees and bushes. The paths were still wet. It smelled like lush grass, soil, and animals. The zoo was almost empty. 

John and Sherlock didn't walk as much as stagger along, pulling each other into the park. It was as if something were forcing them together and preventing them from walking straight on their own. They bumped into each other, brushed up against each other, walked so close together than they got in each other's way. It was a strange and confusing situation. 

John felt as if he were in a daze in the wake of the unexpectedly unambiguous intimacy in the cab. His knees were weak and a light mist hovered between him and his surroundings. He was disorientated at first, didn't quite know what he should do. He didn't know the zoo at all. They hadn't taken the brochure with the map at the entrance or even so much as glanced at the signs. They'd just stumbled in. Now they had to pick a path. Any one. 

John reached resolutely for Sherlock and hooked their arms together. That at least allowed them to walk side by side, very close together, without getting in each other's way. They tried to coordinate their steps. It was such an unfamiliar and surreal problem that John shook his head, amused and bewildered, as they stood together at the wall around the primate habitat. 

They'd headed for the wall like drowning men for the safety of the coast, and they stood there now leaning against it, their shoulders pressed together, staring down at the baboons running wildly around the cliffs. 

John barely noticed the animals at all. Sherlock sucked all of the attention up for himself. John could smell Sherlock's aftershave, the spicy fusion it created with Sherlock's skin. A touch of cool aloofness. And that exciting undercurrent, a bitter mineral tang that was only detectable up close. Close to Sherlock's skin. Like last night, when Sherlock had lain in his bed, in his arms. At the photo session. In the lift at the club. When they met on the dance floor, had hugged and kissed. The scent of Sherlock. John knew that pheromones were odourless. He was too close to Sherlock to escape them, and had been for a long time. But now something had happened. Maybe the concentration was too high. He was reacting to it, and it made him woozy.

"Shall we try going on?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "Let's stay here a little longer." After hesitating a moment, he added, "It's good here. Nice to take some time. To be close to you."

They were silent for a while. They were both breathing more heavily than usual, and could sense it in each other. They were standing too close to ignore it.

"I'd like for it to always be like this," Sherlock said softly. "For us always to be so close. All the time. Closer even. Very close. As close as possible. I want to sleep with you."

John took a deep breath, nonplussed by Sherlock's unexpected directness.

"We're getting there," he finally said, his voice rough. "We're working on opening that door."

"I know. I'm well aware of what it means to do that. It will change everything in my life. All my plans. Everything I believed or thought."

Sherlock's voice was sober and pensive. John slowly lifted his arm, placed his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades and ran it down his back, warm and affectionate. He didn't know why he did it, he was just following his intuition, an impulse to touch Sherlock. Maybe to give him a sign that he'd understood.

"Is that an option you can commit to?" Sherlock asked.

It sounded surprisingly matter-of-fact. John still heard the slight tremble in his voice.

"Sherlock, we don't know if we'll get on together as a couple. It will change everything. It can go horribly wrong and destroy our friendship. That scares me."

"Is that an option you can commit to?" Sherlock repeated his question.

John swallowed hard. Sherlock wasn't beating around the bush. In fact he was being so direct that it was almost too much for John. The question didn't allow for any half-heartedness. It demanded an unequivocal stand. Sherlock was only speaking of a single option. That was all. Just the one. And he wanted a clear yes or no to it. John knew his answer would open the door the rest of the way. Or close it forever. Sherlock was trying to end the emotional chaos between them with a single question whose answer would have consequences no matter what it was. And the decision was all up to him: John. His pulse beat wildly.

"If yes and no are the only choices, then yes," he said.

Several minutes passed between them in silence before John said quietly, "This either-or is a tricky business when it comes to emotions, Sherlock. My yes is brand new, you know. You couldn't have asked me yesterday."

"But it's a yes."

"Yes."

They stood at the wall for a long time, lost in thought, leaning against each other without speaking. John breathed in Sherlock's bitter, earthy odour, absorbed his body heat, felt the motions of Sherlock breathing against his shoulder. It was a relief, in a way. Although John was uncertain about the path they had embarked on, it was still a result. They'd talked and clarified their intentions. There was no doubt there was a physical attraction between them. They stood there, hearts pounding, fixated on their mutual proximity. It was a bizarre path they'd taken to becoming the lovers they had pretended to be.

After a while, they walked on. Sherlock took John's hand and they walked hand-in-hand for a ways, being stared at by the people passing them in the other direction. They looked at animals without seeing them. Lemurs. Apes. Birds. Tigers. Bears. Their togetherness subsumed any other presence. They touched constantly, addicted to the mutual reassurance. Their fingers sought each other out, brushed together, caressed, held tight when they stood close, their hearts pounding, pretending to watch the animals. A stream of energy flowed between them, acting like a magnet.

John was well aware of what he was experiencing, even if he couldn't understand the intensity with which it had struck. He walked as if in a daze. Somewhere, a dam had broken, the first few cracks were showing, water was forcing its way through with a force that could no longer be stopped. Even if they were nothing more than hairline fractures at the moment: the water that had found its way through couldn't be held back. Was there anything left to save before the dam burst? John was too confused to think about it. 

When Sherlock's lips brushed his – later, beneath one of the park's venerable trees – when they willingly parted for each other, their mouths questing, caressing, trembling, gentle, dizzying. When John's body suddenly filled with fire shooting hot into his loins, his heart racing; Sherlock moaned out loud, bit unconsciously into John's lip. When they frantically separated, panting, looked at each other in shock, it was then that John knew that it was too late to save anything. He was ready to drown in the flood.

***

"Sex takes place in the mind," Sherlock said. "The mind needs to actively approve the act. It consciously disengages its own control system, in a manner of speaking. If it remains online, the body is blocked. It needs explicit approval. That makes sense. The mind turns control over to the body, which has its own rules."

"It was a first try, Sherlock."

"What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing. It isn't possible to do anything wrong."

"It wasn't very orderly."

John smiled. "Yeah. It's not supposed to be."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It was exciting and very pleasant."

Sherlock took a bite of his toast, chewing it as he thought. "I thought it would be easier," he said.

"It's both, Sherlock. It's easy and it's terribly complex. It's normal for it not to be the way we imagined at first. Don't worry about it."

"It's easy alone. But there are two of us, that makes it difficult. I need to find out how my body reacts to you. And how yours reacts to me. And we need to coordinate the interaction between us. We need to figure out how we can react to each other. There must be some patterns for interactions..."

"Sherlock! Please." John put his hand over Sherlock's and looked directly into his ice-pure eyes. "Turn your brain off. You can't analyse what happened to get to the bottom of it. It's a completely different dimension of experience." And after gazing for quite a long time into the beautiful, clear eyes, he added, "Is a pattern of interaction really the only thing that you think of?"

A moment of confusion. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together and his face twitched. Then his gaze sought John's and studied it. The cool blue was overrun with emotion, became soft and warm, plunged deep into John. Sherlock's lips parted, his breaths came faster. He swallowed. Something like incredulous wonder appeared in his eyes and he whispered, "Yes."

And a moment later: "I'm an arse, John."

John tenderly caressed the back of Sherlock's hand with the tips of his fingers.

"I know," he said affectionately.

***

Sherlock was vulnerable. John watched over the spot where the leaf had fallen, the fragile spot that led directly to his heart. It was the spot where Sherlock turned off the control system in his head and exposed himself completely to John and everything that lay behind the dam. There was an unimaginably large and unimaginably dark expanse of water. 

They had gone home to Baker Street after the zoo. Both dizzy with their reciprocal availability. Worked up from the passion that had manifested in their kiss. Overwhelmed by the emotions they were able to unleash in each other. And between them the option of total mutual surrender. 

John held fast to the knowledge that God only knew this wouldn't be the first time he had sex with someone. Still, he couldn't ignore his fears. They were irrational and deep-seated and mixed up with the painful, burning desire to possess Sherlock entirely: his body, but above all his heart. John couldn't recall ever having had such strong and contradictory feelings for anyone before. What scared him the most was the seriousness and inescapability, the inscrutable intensity with which they were both approaching this thing that could destroy both of their existences. It wasn't until later in the course of the evening that John realised that it was the first time he'd loved a man with this degree of commitment. Completely. On so many levels that there was no escape anymore.

Sherlock pulled John to him as soon as they closed the door to the flat behind them, drew him into his arms. They embraced each other close and hard, gave themselves up to the swirl of heat which made them powerless to resist its force. They stood like that for a long time, not saying anything. It wasn't until they'd both calmed down a bit that they carefully separated, looking at each other with eyes that were full and wet. The icy blue of Sherlock's was dark and intense, and John let himself sink into them. A small smile lit up between them. A moment that brimmed with happiness. Sherlock lifted his hand, touched John's face lightly with the tips of his fingers.

They withdrew to the couch, cuddled, kissed, caressed, explored their newfound intimacy slowly and deliberately. John let Sherlock lead, let him decide how far he wanted to go. At least at the beginning. At some point, John couldn't stand it any longer. Sherlock's kisses drove him mad: the tongue licking between his lips, Sherlock's faint gasps, the hands in his hair, on his neck, his uncontrolled heat. 

John's trousers became tight. He saw the same thing happening to Sherlock and wanted nothing more than to finally be touched, to be able to touch Sherlock. Following his instinct, he swung one leg over Sherlock so he could sit on his lap, his hard cock pressing against Sherlock's, slid both hands into the untamed hair and kissed Sherlock deeply. 

Sherlock let his head fall back with a moan, exposing his neck to John. John ran his tongue up to Sherlock's ear, licked it and probed possessively inside. Sherlock arched up beneath him, panting, and John sucked hard on Sherlock's neck as he rubbed his groin against Sherlock's rock-hard lap, powerless in the face of his desire, until he heard Sherlock's soft cry and felt the contraction through both pairs of their thin summer trousers.

John reached into his own trousers mere seconds later and provided his own release. Sherlock watched him in dismay.

"Why did you do that?" he whispered, troubled, when John sank down in his arms, his face pressed to Sherlock's shoulder, his pulse still racing.

"I couldn't wait any longer," John answered softly.

Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, gently drew him in. Sherlock nuzzled his cheek against John's. John wasn't sure what he felt there. Tears?

"I gave myself to you," Sherlock whispered in his ear, his voice cracking with disappointment. "You didn't. Why did you take for yourself what should have been mine?"


	11. Rapprochement

"Come on."

John had stood up and held out his hand to Sherlock, who was still sitting on the couch. Sherlock's gaze injured. They'd sat there a long time in each other's arms, loath to lose the contact between their bodies. _I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't think it would hurt you._ John had apologised several times.

"Let's go shower, Sherlock. We could both use one."

"Together?"

"Yeah."

John was determined not to let their connection sever now, to stay close to Sherlock. Show him that intimacy meant much more to him than sexual contact, that it was about more than physical release. So much more. It was about their life. About his, which he had relinquished utterly and completely to Sherlock despite his fears of losing his freedom. And about Sherlock's, who had allowed the dam to break contrary to each and every one of his principles. Both of them had paid far too high a price to concede so much as a single millimetre of their newfound closeness now.

John looked deeply into Sherlock's eyes, which flickered with uncertainty. He meant this in earnest. He stood there like a rock, heavy with warmth and new love, immovable in his resolve not to give up now, to continue down this path, to stay with Sherlock, to enter into this new realm along with him, accepting the responsibility together, now more than ever.

"Come."

A gentle, loving summons. Sherlock took his hand and followed him.

John washed Sherlock's hair slowly and deliberately, lathered his back, rinsed him off with hot water, stroked the bare, wet skin with care. He'd only touched it with tenderness like this once before, at the photoshoot. It was full of scars. John knew some of them, had cared for the wounds. He didn't know the origins of many others. That was typical of Sherlock too. That insensitivity about his own body. The indifference toward physical injury. The disregard of pain. 

John rested his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck for several moments and closed his eyes when he realised how intimate what they were doing really was. Sherlock's deep breaths. They both held still, the silence meditative.

John let Sherlock do the same for him, stood there in the steamy shower, turned toward the fogged-up glass, took pleasure in the callused yet careful hands on his scalp and back. They were silent the whole time, passed the shower gel without saying a word as they washed the rest of their bodies, each one for himself, close together in the hot, humid, fragrant air. It wasn't until they rinsed each other off that their eyes met and they smiled, an unexpected peace between them.

John made tea and prepared a little something to eat. They talked about the case while they ate. Sherlock speculated that Mycroft and Manderville must be sniping at each other over the submarine contract by now. John expressed his doubts about Luc and Jay being able to eliminate everything that might endanger Antonio.

"Why didn't you take care of it yourself?" he asked.

"I did. Most of it's done. The rest isn't our job, John. None of it is our job, in fact."

"No, our assignment was different. We switched sides. Mycroft won't like it."

"He'll never find out."

"He's expecting results from us."

"We'll give them to him as soon as Luc's done his job and covered the rest of the tracks. Then it will be time for the real solution. I've made sure Antonio dies."

"What?" John lowered his fork and stared at Sherlock.

"Faked, of course. An accident with a motorboat off Key West. The propeller. Rather ugly. Whatever is left of the body will be delivered to Spain but it won't be indentifiable. Oh, his relatives in Granada will attempt to, but they won't succeed. All that will be left is a ring and some scraps of clothing. The DNA comparison with his siblings will convince them, though. Clearly Antonio. Falsified, of course. The best hiding place there is."

"How did you manage that?"

"Esma gave me some money, the ring and clothes, and the right addresses, and I paid off a few people. Simple."

"What about Luc? Jay? Antonio's family?"

"Esma knows about it and has informed Antonio. Everyone else will grieve."

"Even Luc?"

"Yes. Especially him. He's too close to Antonio and knows too much. That makes him dangerous. He knows that Antonio's in Cuba and is taking a trip to Key West with the boat to get some parts for the construction project from the shipyard there. Antonio's relatives will send him the sad news as soon as they find out themselves. He'll believe it."

John fell silent, troubled.

"A perfect and extremely elegant solution," Sherlock added smugly.

John set down his fork, pushed his plate away. Memories arose: a dark, stinking morass. Two years. Two lost years. Hell on earth. Unbearable. An all-encompassing grief. John swallowed hard. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him, sensed his uncertainty.

"Obviously tried and true," John said bitterly.

"John."

Sherlock's fingers touched John's. John closed his eyes, forced himself not to withdraw his hand. The memory of blood and misery and a bottomless pit of despair made him shiver. Sherlock scooted his chair closer to John's, took both of his hands in his. John let him. But there was resistance. John felt how his own hands remained stiff and recalcitrant in Sherlock's.

"John."

"Other people's feelings are irrelevant," John whispered.

Something squeezed so hard inside him that tears threatened to spill over. He tried to take deep, even breaths, to loosen the black knot inside him. Sherlock stroked his hands.

"No. They do count, John," he said softly. "Antonio's and Cirilo's feelings count, otherwise they would have given up long ago. Luc's feelings count, otherwise he wouldn't be doing what he's doing. Jay's feelings, Antonio's father's, Esma's, the relatives' ... all of their feelings count. Even Mycroft's. If that weren't the case, nothing we're doing here would be necessary."

"You're toying with them."

"I'm looking for solutions to entanglements."

"And deciding about other people's feelings."

"I'm preventing uncontrolled pain by generated controlled pain. I'm saving Antonio and Cirilo, who are emotionally dependent upon each other, by taking him away from other people who don't rely on him emotionally."

"What do you know about what it means to lose someone you love?" John's voice was thick.

"The basis of every existence crumbles."

The clear, simple answer surprised John. The basis of every existence crumbles. Yes, that's how it was, how it had been.

"I thought of you every second of those two years, John. I kept functioning on pure force of will, but in truth I couldn't hold myself upright anymore, I couldn't breathe. That's why I did this for Antonio and Cirilo. They're in the same situation."

Their eyes met. John was silent. He'd expected anything but that.

"I came back to you although I know I was endangering both of our lives by doing so. But it's better to die in love than to be destroyed by longing. Antonio and Cirilo know that too."

Sherlock's blue eyes were sombre. John gazed into them in wonder. He'd never, ever thought that Sherlock would say something like that. Never. He swallowed and said slowly, "So we'll close the case with Antonio's death certificate."

"Yes."

John nodded. Their hands held each other fast. Softer now.

"Okay."

John took a deep breath. Sherlock's hair brushed him as he lowered his head, and he let his forehead tilt down against Sherlock's.

"What we're doing here scares me, Sherlock," he said softly.

The words came from somewhere deep inside him, unfiltered. 

Sherlock squeezed his hands gently. "It's the last step of something that happened a long time ago," he whispered.

***

John woke when something moved beside him. He must have dozed off. Sherlock had asked him to sleep next to him, and he'd gone to lie down in Sherlock's bed to wait for his friend to join him. Sherlock had wanted to check something in his mailbox. John didn't know how late it was or how long he'd slept. It was dark. The only illumination was the street lamp shining into the room as it always did. 

There was a soft snuffling next to John's ear. A hand stroked his face, his hair, lips touched his. John opened up to them, returned the kiss still half asleep. Sherlock must have been in bed for a while already. He lay very close, John could feel the intense warmth right beside him. He groped for it, slid his hand over the lean body lying mere centimetres away. 

He was naked. Naked and erect. Sherlock let out a small sound when John's fingers brushed his hard penis. John withdrew his hand, ran it tenderly through the tangled hair on his head. He was on the threshhold to sleep, warm and relaxed. 

He went along with it easily when Sherlock reached underneath his t-shirt to pull it off, tugged his pyjama bottoms down. A warm hand on his skin. It rested on his hip for a few moments before Sherlock scooted closer. John wrapped his arms around him. He gasped for air when the naked male body cuddled up to his. 

A wave of heat surged through his body, their legs slotted between each other. John's pulse was racing. Sherlock breathed heavily into his neck, sighed, nestled in more firmly against him as John ran his hand down the bony back, ribs beneath hot skin, firm muscles, angular hip bones, hard thighs. A tough, sinewy strength in the slender body. John held him pressed close. They just stayed like that, intimately intertwined. Neither of them moving. 

John breathed in the heady dampness of their skin, the tangy bitterness with a hint of sweetness underneath. He felt Sherlock's breath, the rapidly beating heart, the stiff genitalia against his thigh within the narrow bracket of their legs. It took a while for him to calm down. But then he felt the other body relaxing in his arms. At some point, John realised he was about to drift off to sleep again. He didn't know what Sherlock's intentions were, nor what he wanted. But he did know that he didn't want to disappoint him again.

"Sherlock?"

"It's an incredible feeling, John," Sherlock whispered in his ear. He was panting lightly, and the embrace tightened.

"Can I do something for you?"

"I've never been this close to another person before. So unreservedly. So very, very close. It's fantastic, John. Overwhelming. Just let me be here with you. I've wanted this for so long."

John caressed Sherlock without saying anything, touched by his words.

"We're connected. Directly. Nothing between us," Sherlock whispered after a while, his voice trembling, still nestled in deep against John.

"Yeah."

A couple more minutes before Sherlock said, "You can be incredibly close without sex."

"Yes."

"But you can also let sex just happen from this closeness."

John pressed his face into Sherlock's neck, breathed in the spicy heat. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Is it possible to connect the two?"

"Sometimes."

John's heart thudded in his chest. He caressed Sherlock's back, his damp neck, his hair.

"What is it dependent on?"

"I don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled back a little. Their noses touched, their foreheads, their lips. John rubbed his nose gently against his friend's and kissed him softly. He was deep in an unbelievably beautiful dream; he wasn't sure whether it was real or not. But then Sherlock took his face in both hands and gazed deep into his eyes. 

"I want to let it happen, John," he whispered hoarsely.

"Then do it."

They held each other's gaze. Breathless now. The mutual signal had a strong effect. Sherlock's eyes fogged over, he moaned. His groin pressed against John's. John's body reacted immediately. What followed was a hot, gasping, feverish free-for-all that ended barely a minute later with Sherlock releasing his semen on John's stomach, simultaneously biting John's shoulder so hard that John cried out. A ripple went through Sherlock's body, then he fell suddenly limp and flopped down beside John, who put his arms around him and held him tight. 

It had gone much too fast for John. Sherlock hadn't given him a chance. But it was fine. He left things as they were, whispered in Sherlock's ear that it was good, that he loved him. He kissed and nuzzled his friend, petted him until he fell asleep in his arms. It didn't take long.


	12. The Paradox

Lucas Finch was pale and earnest. He held out a large envelope toward John. "Your prints. If you still want them."

John had jumped up. Sherlock, who was messing about with chemicals at the kitchen table, had turned the bunsen burner off and removed his protective goggles. They'd both heard the man coming up the stairs and thought it was a client. Neither of them had expected Lucas Finch. 

John reacted first. 

"Luc! Come in. Of course we still want the prints."

John took the envelope from the photographer and showed him into the living room. He didn't quite know what to say. Luc looked terrible. Like he hadn't slept. He must have heard that Antonio was dead. As everyone else had. Mycroft, Antonio's father, the relatives in Granada. John had been on call at Bart's the past few days and was grateful for it. He couldn't deal with the lie nearly as well as Sherlock, who was acting the cold-blooded, unsympathetic sociopath.

"I assume you're here about Antonio, not the photographs," Sherlock said as he came into the living room. "Sit."

Sherlock pointed at one of the chairs. Luc remained standing, not seeming to see it.

"Both," he said. "The photographs and Antonio." And following a brief hesitation: "I was in Granada."

"I know."

Luc's eyes sought Sherlock's, caught them, probing.

"I was in Granada," Luc clarified curtly, "when the family was notified and asked to identify the body."

Deathly silence fell over the living room in Baker Street. John swallowed over a dry throat. He looked over at Sherlock, whose face had hardened.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly. "I know from Antonio's father that it was an accident with a motorboat. It was a great shock for the family. Sit down."

Sherlock indicated the chair again, and this time Luc sat. John went into the kitchen, fetched a glass of water, set it on the coffee table in front of Luc and sat down to join them. Luc and Sherlock were still staring at each other. Sherlock sat there completely relaxed and alert, playing the role of the patient listener to the hilt, but John could sense the tension underneath. A tension that Sherlock couldn't entirely conceal, at least not from John. And maybe not from Luc either.

"It was... horrible," Luc began. "His siblings asked me to accompany them to the morgue. I saw it as my duty as a friend of the family to support them at such a terrible time. So I went along."

His voice died. He swallowed hard, took a sip of water. His hand shook as he brought the glass to his mouth. It was a while before he could continue.

"They showed us scraps of clothing, a shoe, Antonio's passport smeared with blood, a piece of the boat registration, Antonio's ring. I wanted to see Antonio."

Luc was breathing hard, choking on the memory of what he had seen. He didn't speak for several long seconds. Sherlock and John waited. Their eyes met. Sherlock's reflected concern and wariness. John felt terrible.

"A brother of Antonio's," Luc started again, with difficulty, "wanted to see him too. They showed us what the ship's propeller had left behind. Shredded flesh, shattered bones, tufts of hair, maimed limbs. It was a nightmare. I've never seen anything so horrendous before and I hope I'll never have to see anything like it again. It was impossible to identify Antonio. His brother broke down. He couldn't deal with the sight. I had to tend to him. They then did a DNA comparison with the siblings. The result was unambiguous."

Luc simply fell silent after that. They all did. John felt utterly miserable. Sherlock stared down at his hands, folded in front of him. 

At some point Luc went on: "I took a lot of photographs of Antonio, you know. I loved him. Not carnally. He and I weren't lovers. He was beyond all that. He was unique, something very special. Something like a muse. I often explored his beauty. Inside and out. For hours on end. He let me. He liked having me photograph him. We were very close friends. He was the most important person in my life, next to Jay."

Luc drank some more water, slow and shaky. Then he raised his head and looked over at Sherlock. Their eyes met again, and they took each other's measure for a long time.

"I know every detail of Antonio," Luc said emphatically. "I've photographed him often enough. The body they showed us: I'm almost positive it wasn't Antonio."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. Then – the tension audible and curiosity evident in his voice – Sherlock asked, "What leads you to that assumption?"

"There was a corner of an ear still hanging off the remains of the skull. The structure was no longer recognisable, but the earlobe was nearly complete. It had a hole for an earring. Antonio's body was intact. Pure and unbroken."

Sherlock and Luc watched each other closely.

"A DNA comparison is completely reliable," Sherlock stated.

"I know. That's why I didn't sleep all night. It's possible that Antonio had it pierced in Cuba. Maybe as part of his disguise. But I'm almost a hundred percent certain he didn't. He loved his body and would never have disfigured it that way. So if the body wasn't Antonio's: why did the DNA comparison come back positive? I don't understand. I've considered having another DNA test done just to be sure. But that would have to be initiated by his relatives. I can't call for it as an outsider."

"Have you talked to anyone about your doubts?" Sherlock asked.

"Not yet. I wanted to talk to you before I did that to Antonio's family. If you know anything, Sherlock, tell me."

Sherlock remained silent. He held Luc's gaze and didn't say a word. John looked back and forth between them, decided not to interfere. Sherlock had set up this conclusion to the case on his own, he should deal with the fallout. They waited a long time. 

Then Luc addressed Sherlock directly, demanding, "Give me an answer. Do you know anything?"

Sherlock turned to John and looked at him. It wasn't a questioning look. It was long and searching. They held each other's gaze for several seconds. Seconds in which a filmstrip ran in John's head, painful memories, an explosive bundle of emotions. Seconds in which Sherlock read something in his eyes and decided.

"Antonio is alive and in Cuba," Sherlock said quietly, turning back to Luc – slowly, as if he couldn't tear his eyes away from John's. "Esma gave me the money for the bribes along with Antonio's belongings. Antonio's death was staged."

All of the blood drained from Luc's face. He stared at Sherlock aghast, clearly in shock.

"Did you talk to Jay about it?" Sherlock asked.

Luc shook his head. He was deathly pale. The news seemed to have rattled him, throwing him completely for a loop and knocking him speechless. He swallowed hard.

"The fewer people who know about it, the safer Antonio and Cirilo will be," Sherlock explained. "This has to stay with us."

Luc nodded dumbly. He was visibly shaken, closed his eyes for several long moments as he tried to get a grip on himself again.

"Whose body was it?" he finally asked, his voice raw.

"A homeless junkie from Torremolinos. He fell into the water whilst under the influence of drugs and was run over by the ferry."

Luc blew out a breath, let himself collapse against the back of the chair. He looked exhausted. He seemed to be looking for words and not finding them.

"It's in Antonio's interest for you to keep quiet," Sherlock reminded him.

"I know. Esma's too. Was it her idea?"

"No. But she's involved and needs support."

"Alfredo's with her."

"Good. We should just lie low now if possible and let the dust settle."

"Yes. Yes, I understand." Luc's voice sounded dull, he spoke slowly and haltingly. "I'll try, even if I don't think it's right. You're letting people suffer for the sake of Antonio's happiness, making his family and friends grieve. That's going too far, Sherlock. Much too far. But I don't have any choice other than to accept it. I can't tell the truth because I know where Antonio is. There would be a big outcry and an investigation and I wouldn't be able to protect Antonio anymore."

"Think of Esma as well. She's risking a lot."

"Antonio would never forgive me, I know." Luc huffed. "Fine," he said and stood up. "Thank you anyway. At least the junkie will have a decent funeral. Jay and I will be flying to Granada for it." He sounded bitter.

Sherlock and John stood as well. Luc nodded at both of them.

"It's not that I'm ungrateful to you," he said, still sombre and troubled. "You were supposed to track Antonio down and you ended up hiding him instead. It's still not that easy to swallow, everything you've done. It's a serious matter. Antonio's father is in hospital. There was an incident with his heart when he learned of his son's death."

"He'll recover. He's doing better already," Sherlock said.

Luc nodded tiredly. "Maybe we'll see each other at the club again. Oh yes, and the photographs – consider them my gift to you."

Luc left then without another word. John and Sherlock hung back. They stood in their living room listening to the receding footsteps on the stairs, the outside door clicking shut. They looked at each other for a long time. 

Then Sherlock said, "I didn't consider that Luc would see the body in Granada."

"I'm glad he knows," John countered.

He picked up the envelope with the photographs from the table and held it out to Sherlock. But Sherlock had already turned around and gone back to the kitchen to continue setting up his experiment.

***

John did up the bottom button of his polo shirt and looked at himself in the mirror, twisting his neck from one side to the other. You couldn't see it. Good. It hurt, though, still burned in spite of the cooling gel he'd put on it. He'd bought himself a set of polo shirts. They were perfect. The collar covered the traces of nocturnal passion. And he looked good in polo shirts.

John often thought he'd suspected, subconsciously, that that might have been the reason he'd hesitated so long. That he should have known about it at any rate. Sherlock was an unsettled person, who went to extremes. In every sense. Including sexual. Anyway, it had happened now. John wasn't going to second-guess it. It was fine.

John checked the grey eyes in the mirror. They were nice. Deep and soft and calm. John knew it was the newfound love, now lived to its fullest, that was at the root. That calmness and depth, the knowledge of things that were hidden. Buried far down. John smiled at himself and stretched his back. He felt the physicality of his body more than ever. The steady power in it, the energy, the intense heat. Things he could rely on. His body had been awakened to a new adventure. The wounds and marks were nothing more than outward signs of a rapture that exceeded all boundaries.

Sometime, at some point, Sherlock would understand that he was going to stay with him. No matter what happened. That he was going to stay forever. That it wasn't necessary to mark him physically, to brand him, to swallow him up with such unrestrained desperation. With such fear. And with such untamed possessiveness. At some point, Sherlock would understand that a complete union was impossible. Not this way. Or maybe it was. Maybe this was the way. John looked at himself, thoughtful.

That was the paradox. On the one hand the body with all of its functions that made such closeness and melding possible. On the other hand the body that made it clear only seconds later that it was all just an illusion, that there were two of them. Not one. The body unified them and separated them. At some point, sometime, Sherlock would understand that it was possible to be two and still be one. At some point he would know it deep down and not doubt any longer, even when they remained two. Because there would still be the mutual knowledge of each other and of those moments, those heady, out-of-control moments of utter reciprocal possession. And those moments could be repeated, a continually renewable affirmation. An affirmation that Sherlock often demanded. Frequently and unapologetically. The unapologetic nature of it left its mark on John's soul. It connected them more than he'd ever expected. 

The End


End file.
